The Nightingale's Song
by Catali7
Summary: "Unless I am much mistaken, Radhrion would prefer we start with you, Merilinith. What brings you to Imladris?" "Well..." Merrill swallowed, her throat suddenly bone dry. "I'm not sure how to answer you, because I am unsure, myself." She saw that he was patiently waiting for her to continue. "So, what I mean to say is… I'm sort of not from around here?" GIME/M later/Legolas/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Hey there! So this is my first fanfiction. I've been an avid reader of them for a few years, now, but I just got up the nerve to try my hand at writing one this past week... and here we are. This is another girl falls into Middle Earth story, but I hope you enjoy the twists I have planned for later sections. I've been reading the Silmarillion, over the past few months, so some of that will feature heavily here, as well. I'm planning for this story to go through all LOTR books and, if I haven't quit or died by that point, I might consider continuing. For me, this is for fun and to get me back into writing after a long time away. I hope you enjoy it!**

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 **"Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well**

 **As she is** fam'd **to do, deceiving elf.**

 **Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades**

 **Past the near meadows, over the still stream,**

 **Up the hill-side; and now '** tis **buried deep**

 **In the next valley-glades:**

 **Was it a vision, or a waking dream?**

 **Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?**

 **\- John Keats, 'Ode to a Nightingale.'**

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ooOoo

Merrill was late. Perpetually so. She'd been late to her own birth (two weeks her mother harped on about to this day), she'd been late to her high school prom (hair dye nightmare; enough said), and she'd been late to her college graduation (due to an unfortunate choice of meal at Jimmy's Thai Curry food cart, which resulted in the obliteration of her best friend's Kia).

Currently, she was late for a dental appointment with Helen, who was the dental equivalent of Freddy Kruegger on a bad day. She smelt of something vaguely floral, but overpowering, cigarette smoke, Listerine, and disappointment. That last was usually reserved for Merrill and her half-hearted attempts at flossing, but she figured she was doing the stern woman a favor; Helen enjoyed scolding her patients. A good scolding, a mug of earl gray, and the caterwauling of Celine Dion, and she was one happy hygienist.

Merrill told herself her lateness this time was due to her own ideas of emotional philanthropy, but it was really because she'd started a new book the night before and hadn't yet been able to put it down. Even now, as she walked past bustling shop fronts, Merrill's nose was firmly planted in the pages. She'd stumbled into two businessmen on the hunt for lunch, a stroller (sans infant), and a curious mutt, whose leash nearly ended her dreams of nose modeling.

Between one apology and the next, Merrill didn't notice that the sounds of traffic had died away. Nor did she notice the sudden lack of sidewalk. What she did notice was something sharp pressing into her back.

She yelped and jumped forward, her book fluttering to the dirt. _Wait - DIRT?!_ She turned her head so fast her neck cracked; her eyes darted about her, but all she could see were trees. Well, trees and a person.

Merrill took in a pair of dark brown leather boots, a pair of what she supposed were tan leggings, a long, blue silk tunic, embroidered with gold leaves, and a face that could launch a thousand ships. She thought he might have been holding a bow and arrow, but she couldn't quite process what she was seeing for long enough to register if that were so.

The man who stood before her was tall, slender, and strong. His skin was pale, but not sickly, and somewhat reminiscent of pearls, his shoulder-length hair was darker than jet and hung in waves down his back, and his eyes were the color of the pale morning sky; somewhere between blue and grey.

The man asked something, but Merrill didn't recognize the language. "I don't understand. Do you speak English?"

This received nothing more than another lyrical question and a quirk of the man's lips.

"Do you speak Westron, then?" he asked, his tone colored with amusement.

"I... guess?" Merril's voice was nothing more than a squeak, and she cleared her throat, "I mean, I speak English."

"What is your name?"

"...Merrill."

"Well met, Merrill. I am Radhrion of Mithlond," He bowed his head, his hand twisting over his heart in some manner of greeting. "If I might ask, what brings you to these woods? And so..." he considered her clothing, "...strangely attired?"

Merrill eyed her jeans and hoodie; they looked all right to her. "I'm not sure..." Her mind whirled; something was happening here that she didn't rightly understand. Taking a chance, she asked, "Do you know where we are?"

Radhrion blinked. "We are on the border of Imladris, home of Lord Elrond Peredhel..."

"Ah," Merrill nodded her head slowly. "Right. Imladris. Elrond... Righty... Allllright. Okay. No."

"No?"

"No!" Merrill pushed her hair off her face and held it there, taking a deep, calming breath. "Look, it's fine to be into cosplay. If you want to hang out in the woods getting drunk with strangers at renaissance festivals - it's all good. We all unwind in our own ways, and I'm not one to judge. But I honestly have no idea where I am or how I got here and I'm really starting to freak out, so I'm gonna need you to drop the _'Men in Tights'_ routine and help me!"

Radhrion glanced down at his pants, then back up. " _Men in Tights_?"

Merrill growled. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. That movie about Robin Hood? The bloke from _The Princess Bride_ was in it? They..." Merrill cast about and finished lamely, "...wore tights?"

He cocked his head to the side and, in that moment, Merrill wanted nothing more than to smack him.

"Forget the movie - that's not my point, anyway. Just... can you drop the act, or whatever, and help me? Please?" She hoped she didn't sound as desperate as she felt.

Radhrion approached cautiously, his hands held up ever so slightly before he placed them on her shoulders. "Merrill, I would be pleased to assist you in whatever way you require, but I'm afraid I do not understand any of what you are saying. What is... cosplay?" his mouth fumbled the unfamiliar word, and Merrill had to stifle the urge to laugh. Or cry. Or both, as was most likely.

"That isn't..." Merrill stopped. She needed to calm down; hysteria wouldn't help her figure out what had happened, and she was bordering on panic. She inhaled through her nose, counting to seven, and then exhaled through her mouth, counting to seven. Merrill did this three times more before she felt capable of speaking in a tone that wouldn't make dog's ears bleed. "Okay. How about you bring me to wherever you and your friends are camped - I mean, Imladris - and you can answer some of my questions on the way. Sound good?"

That amusement was back, and it made his already painfully attractive face shine all the brighter. "I had planned to escort you to Imladris, regardless, so this is something to which I can easily agree." He gestured to the path in front of him politely, and Merrill walked past, assiduously ignoring her clammy hands and knotted stomach, and doing her best to regulate her breathing.

And so they spoke. Radhrion asked for clarification on several terms she'd mentioned, and Merrill pumped him for information on, well, everything else. He confirmed her suspicions, though: he was cosplaying Lord of the Rings, though Merrill did not recognize his name as being that of one of the major characters and he continued to insist he had no idea what cosplay was. But she couldn't accept that, no matter how truthful he appeared. Instead, she listened quietly while he spoke and did her best to humor him in his delusions.

ooOoo

Radhrion had pointed ears. Elfy, pointed ears; all delicate, and graceful, and **POINTED**.

She really couldn't stress that last part enough.

Merrill had questioned him when his dark hair had fallen across his shoulder, revealing the tip of one, gracefully arched ear, and Radhrion had stared at her as though she'd just kissed a dwarf.

With tongue.

Then he had pointed out something of his own: Merrill had pointy ears, too. Though he had said it much more kindly, and had dealt with the resulting mental break with a restraint Merrill found impossible to comprehend. Even when she had begun to scrabble wildly at her ears, shrieking, "GET 'EM OFF! GET 'EM OFF!" Radhrion had remained cool and calm, wrapping her tightly in his arms until she tired.

That had been an hour ago.

Merrill was silent once more. _She was an elf. A bloody, freaking elf. She had pointed ears, she was in Middle Earth, and she was making her way to literal Rivendell_.

The tantrum she had thrown over Radhrion's revelation had left her throat raw (from screeching her denial), and her hair a mess (she'd tried to jump off a tree, thinking to wake herself from what was clearly a fried chicken induced nightmare. Radhrion had disapproved). Merrill had also broken a toe: the result of a philosophical argument between a rock and her foot. The rock won.

Then she remembered her cell phone. For a brief, shining moment, all was well and she was back in control. Google maps and her Uber app could surely solve any problem, including this one. Grinning stupidly, she ignored Radhrion's pointed questions and tapped the screen awake with fingers that shook. The bubble screen saver faded and Merrill stared at the flashing warning pulsing across her screen; roaming. It was bloody well, bloody freaking roaming. With a cry of despair, she ripped the back off to conserve the battery and shoved it into her hoodie.

Radhrion glanced back over his shoulder every thirty seconds, his beautiful face twisted up in concern and confusion. Merrill stopped making eye contact and focused, instead, on putting one foot after the other without screaming.

 _She was hiking. In the woods. With a stranger. That stranger had pointed ears and poreless skin. That stranger also insisted they were in a fictional world, on their way to meet a fictional character, who lived in a fictional elven city. And her cell phone didn't work._ Merrill's heart nearly stopped in her chest as realization slid down her throat like an ice cube: _what did her mother think had happened to her? Had she been missing for a few hours? Or a few months? Was Helen going to charge her a late fee? Had they towed her car? Oh, gods! Who was feeding Howard?_ Howard was Merrill's dyspeptic turtle. He lived in a glass tank in her small living room and suffered from frequent bouts of irrational anger and depression. Whenever Merrill spent the night out, she would return to find Howard in a full-blown turtle rage, his sharp jaws crunching furiously upon a stray bit of his breakfast lettuce as though imagining it was her face. She could only imagine what her extended stay in a fictional world would do for his temper.

Her mother, on the other hand, would be distraught to find her only daughter missing. She was an English professor at the local community college who had decided opinions on just about every subject, and who took great delight in wiping the floor with anyone who challenged her to scrabble. She had raised Merrill almost entirely alone, her husband having left her when Merrill was seven. To this day, Merrill wasn't sure what had happened between her parents, and her mother never spoke of him. But Merrill had never wanted for anything; her mother supplied her with all the love and support she could ever need, and gifted Merrill her pert opinions, her morbid sense of humor, and her bright hazel eyes.

At this thought, Merrill's eyes grew wet and her vision swam: _Would she ever see her mother, again? Her friends? Her tiny, inconvenient flat? Or her mental turtle? Or would she disappear, as so many young women did, never to be seen, or heard from, again?_

Radhrion clasped her shoulder and pointed into the branches of a nearby pine; a gray, bushy tailed squirrel gazed down at them curiously, an acorn clutched between both paws. Two smaller squirrels raced after one another, dashing up the tree in a spiral pattern, their tails flicking and their whiskers twitching in glee. Below, and further back in the tree line, stood a young buck with three points on his antlers and a staid, wise look in his sloe black eyes. He chewed on a bunch of leaves and made no move to flee at their approach.

Merrill's nose scrunched up at her guide's knowing look, simultaneously pleased and upset that he'd interrupted the beginnings of her panic, but she did as he seemed to suggest and gazed around the clearing. There would be time for panic _after_ she had spoken with Lord Elrond.

The woods were lovely, if you liked that sort of thing. The trees ranged from silver barked beeches, to towering oaks, to some type of pine, whose needles were a deep and vibrant green.

It appeared to be autumn, as the leaves had just begun to shake off their greens in favor of rich gold's, burnished coppers, and startling reds. The pine needles shuddered in the breeze, the oak leaves clacked against one another, and the beech leaves whispered and tittered as though living. Merrill felt a swell of something unknown rise in her chest: the trees were glad at their meeting, but ready for the long sleep of winter.

She blinked back to awareness and met Radhrion's cryptic smile. "What the hell was that?"

He took her hand in one of his own and gently urged her to continue walking. "You spoke with the trees as our kin have done since the first stars were kindled in Varda's night sky many, many ages ago. Have you not done so before?"

Merrill shook her head emphatically, her eyes glazed.

"How is such a thing possible? You are one of the Firstborn in appearance, but your fëa seems lost in dreams of mortality. Every elfling can speak with the trees; it is inherent to our kind. But you..."

Radhrion halted suddenly and Merrill ran smack into his back.

"Ouch!" She rubbed her nose and glared at her guide. "I think your tail light's out."

He turned so quickly she felt the breeze of his movement buffet her, and she hastily took a step back.

"You make no sense, Merrill."

Merrill groaned. She was exhausted, hungry, and scared out of her wits. Her feet were sore, her eyes felt blistered from crying, and her chest ached. She couldn't handle any of this. Not now. Not ever. "No, I imagine not."

When no further explanation was forthcoming, Radhrion sighed and rubbed both hands up and down his face; a strangely human gesture for so ethereal a being. He cupped her elbow and brought her to his side. " _This_ is Imladris."

Merrill's lips parted at the sight. A valley of silver and white lay below them. A sea of trees whose leaves were resplendent in gold and crimson surrounded the valley, and nestled right beside it was a magnificent waterfall, whose noise was softened, somehow, and mellow. A river burbled and danced joyfully along the cities length, its waters sparkling like glass against a backdrop of blue and lavender stones, and chimes of birdsong echoed against the mountain.

Merrill searched the skyline somewhat frantically. There were no cell towers, no streetlights, no skyscrapers, and no planes that she could see. She narrowed her search to the cities' main level; there were no cars, no roads, and no concrete.

 _Well, that settled it. This was definitely **NOT** earth. There was just no way. Which meant Radhrion might just have been telling the truth, after all._ Merrill gulped.

"It is here that you may find answers; where we both might."

Merrill released a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding and looked up into Radhrion's face. It was still and full of sorrow. "You're here for answers? I thought you lived here."

Radhrion's focus never left the valley. "I have a feeling my stay here will be of some duration, if Lord Elrond allows it, of course. My questions are..." His eyes flickered to hers and he appeared to hesitate, "...Complex. Lord Elrond might know more. God ána wát." (1)

Merrill bit her lip to keep from asking anything further. It was clear he would say nothing more.

"Come, little one. Fate awaits."

As they began to descend the mountain, following the white road laid before their feet, the golden, autumn glow of sunset burst and shed its rays upon the pale stone until it appeared as though the city pulsed with the light of a thousand, dying stars.

Merrill turned her burning eyes away and squeezed them shut. Perhaps Lord Elrond would know why she was here. Perhaps he'd know how to wake her up.

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 **A/N:**

 **(1) God only knows.**

 **...So? *stares around empty room* How'd I do?**

 **If you have any thoughts, comments, or just random squees of happiness you're considering sharing, please leave them! Comments = Life.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi, again! Thanks so much to everyone who has followed/favorited my story! I was determined to pace myself (only releasing a chapter once a week) but I figured you guys deserved a little more to tide you over. Who knows? Maybe I'll post more even sooner. This is just a tidbit, but I hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own LOTR. It belongs to Tolkien's estate.**

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 **"Sooner or later we're all someone's dog." - Terry Pratchett**

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ooOoo

The halls of Rivendell were beyond description. What Merrill had first taken for stone arches turned out to be cleverly grown and painted trees. The high arches looking out over the river and waterfall had no substantial covering; gauzy drapes of muted silk fluttered in the breeze. But even with the open architecture, the home of Elrond was warm.

Merrill rubbed her hands together. Her extended trek through the mountains had left her rather cold, and her nerves at meeting a fictional character (and a lord) certainly didn't help matters any. Radhrion had been polite (it was the guy's default state of being), but the closer they came to the valley, the quieter he became until no amount of teasing or wheedling could induce him to speak. Merrill, not being one for uncomfortable silences, began to tell knock knock jokes in what she considered a heroic attempt to ease the tension. She was sadly unsuccessful; Radhrion's glare could have peeled paint.

At the entrance to Rivendell, Lord Elrond's steward, a willowy, graceful elf with dark hair named Erestor, greeted them. He was everything gracious and polite, even when Radhrion insisted he speak with him privately. Their conversation was rapid and hushed. It ended rather abruptly and Erestor, with one last look at Merrill, hastily swept off down a hallway, leaving them to their own devices.

Her stomach grumbled.

"Here, Lembas." Radhrion pulled what looked like a scone from his pack and offered it to her. "This should tide you over until our audience is granted."

"Thanks."

The lembas tasted faintly of butter, lavender, and honey; not an unpleasant taste, to be sure, but she would have killed for a cup of tea to go along with it.

Her companion was quiet. The long shadows of evening crept up around them, skulking like stray cats towards their ankles. Radhrion's elbows rested against his knees and his hands hung between them, crumbling a piece of lembas into fine powder in an absentminded sort of way. Now that they were out of the literal woods, though not the figurative ones, Merrill took a moment to really look at him: Radhrion was tall, as all elves she had seen thus far were. Erestor was a few inches shorter than Radhrion, but the blond elf they had passed stood at least half a foot taller. Radhrion stood head and shoulders above her own, modest 5'7" of height, and maybe a bit more, besides. He had a lithe, though deceptively muscular, build that put her in mind of all those swimming competitions she'd watched with her best friend, Anne, a trim waist, long legs, and broad shoulders. His hands, which were presently shredding a hunk of lembas, were slender and fine. Adorning the ring finger on his left hand lay a plain golden band.

"Are you married?"

Radhrion visibly jumped, the way-bread falling to the ground. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

"Why won't you answer?" Merrill countered.

The elf stood and brushed his hands off on his leggings. "Answer my question and I shall consider answering yours, Merilinith." He strode over to the stone banister that surrounded the elevated courtyard and settled himself against it; his forearms resting across the top while he surveyed the lives of the elves below. Merrill could hear laughter and the low hum of conversation drifting up on the breeze.

"Why did you call me that? What does it mean?"

He chuckled darkly. "If I answer this question, I do not owe you another, Merilinith. Do you wish me to continue?"

"Who made that bargain?"

"You did."

Merrill flung her hands up in frustration, "Fine! I'll bite. I asked you because of your ring." She jerked her chin at his hand. "Where I come from, that means you are married."

Radhrion turned from the balcony, crossing his arms and his ankles as he inspected her. "Is that so?" he murmured.

"Yes." Merrill said curtly.

"And where is it you are from, strange little elleth?" Radhrion pushed off the bannister and began to circle her, his tone one of playful suspicion. "From whence do these clothes and cosmetics come? For it would seem that they are entirely unknown to the elves of Rivendell. The fit of your blouse and trousers quite scandalized Erestor, I am sure."

Merrill's heart sped up; these were dangerous questions. It almost seemed as though Radhrion knew she wasn't what she appeared. She supposed this was understandable; she had blubbered utter nonsense when he had first stumbled upon her in the forest. That coupled with the distinctive quality of her clothing was more than enough to raise his suspicions. The problem was, Merrill wasn't certain she could answer him.

Everything she knew about Middle Earth came from the movies. It was vaguely medieval in its tendencies and adherence to the chivalric code and populated with warrior stoics and more than a few damsels in distress. There was even a dragon. Her arrival in Middle Earth, with all of her ideologies and modern beliefs, could prove disastrous if she cherished hopes for her continued existence. It was like an atheist falling smack dab into the Spanish Inquisition, or a Wiccan landing in Salem: bad news.

"Erestor needs to get out more, then."

"Now who is avoiding the question, little one?"

Merrill was about to tell him where he could shove his questions when she noticed he was smirking. "Insufferable, arrogant, smug…"

He held a hand to one, pointed ear. "I'm afraid I didn't catch that."

"Catch this…" she muttered mulishly, chucking her lembas at his head.

The bastard caught it and popped it into his mouth. When she loudly protested, he dug around in his pack and produced another piece, offering it to her with a dramatic flourish and a little bow.

"My lady."

"Are all elves incorrigible, or is it just you?" She groused grumpily.

He chewed thoughtfully, his blue-gray eyes fixed on the darkening sky. "As much as it would please me to say otherwise, I'm afraid it is the whole lot of us."

Merrill snorted. "I somehow doubt that, Radhrion."

"Oh?" he raised one of his dark brows. "And why is that? I'll have you know I practically wrote the book on elven kind."

"What book?"

He sniffed haughtily. "None you've ever read, I'm sure."

"Snob," Merrill coughed.

"Simpleton!" He playfully ruffled her hair until she squawked in indignation.

Merrill finally gained her freedom and attempted to flatten her hair with all the solemn dignity she could muster. When she was finished, she looked down her long nose at him and said, "You, sir, are a bad elf."

"An exceedingly bad elf," he agreed amiably.

A sound from below interrupted her reply. The elves, it would seem, were closing up shop for the day. Merrill observed the stable hands patting their charges before ambling towards what she assumed was their dinner, hands thrust deep in their pockets and shoulders hunched from the slight chill in the air. Further down, she spied the blacksmiths loading up a wagon with their blades, and a shopkeeper folding dresses before locking her display case. Their chatter was lilting and fluid; it melded with the air. On the air, too, was the smell of fire, wine, and some type of stew. Merrill peered down at her lembas, suddenly dissatisfied. If she were home, she would probably be eating with her friend, Anne, at that Chinese restaurant she liked so much. But here she was, instead, eating hard tack and trading barbed witticisms with a literal elf.

The lembas turned to ashes in her mouth and she had to work to swallow past the lump in her throat. _Would she ever see Anne again?_ Grimly, she forced another piece into her mouth and chewed with deliberate vigor; the sound of her jaws was audible in the crisp night air.

"You appear to be enjoying that."

Merrill grunted.

"It should not take much – Lembas was made to sustain travelers and will fill even the emptiest of bellies in two or three bites. I've consumed only two, and I have been traveling for many weeks, now."

Merrill swallowed guiltily and met his shocked expression: she'd eaten the whole thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to everyone who has followed and favorited this story!**

 **And special thanks to Aralinn, SCE2AUX, and Ragityannie for their wonderful reviews and support - they seriously made my day (and still make me smile whenever I look at them). You guys rock, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **"Who are you?" said the Caterpillar.  
This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, "I—I hardly know, Sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then."  
"What do you mean by that?" said the Caterpillar, sternly. "Explain yourself!"  
"I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, Sir," said Alice, "because I am not myself, you see." —** ** _Lewis Carrol's, "Alice in Wonderland."_**

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ooOoo

Erestor arrived for them both shortly afterwards. Now that Radhrion had pointed it out, Merrill noticed the steward's eyes on her more often than not. She wasn't silly enough to think it was because he found her attractive (as that was highly unlikely in this land of freakish super models) and his regard was too speculative, for that, anyway. Still, she could feel the weight of his judgment and curiosity on her as he ushered them down long hallways, through empty corridors, and past hundreds of tapestries and paintings.

Erestor and Radhrion spoke softly to one another. After the first few words, Merrill realized they spoke that lilting language she could only suppose was elvish and gave up on trying to eavesdrop. Instead, she occupied herself with examining the artwork she passed.

Merrill paused and ran her hands along the fabric of one such tapestry. It was made of a heavy, dense material that felt solid in her hands. She stepped closer, eyeing the fine details of the embroidery admiringly; the stitches were so small she could barely make them out. The white thread, which made up the body of a swan, glittered against the dark blue background of the waves over which it flew. In the distance, dark brown threads mixed with blues, blacks, and greens to depict a storm tossed ship. A faint, silver glow surrounded a handsome male figure on the deck, whose arms were outstretched towards the bird beseechingly. His hair was darker than the night around them, so dark she almost couldn't make it out, but his eyes shone with desperation.

A polite cough broke her from her ruminations. Erestor and Radhrion stood behind her, one bemused, the other irritated. Radhrion's expression was soft with understanding, and a small smile played around the corners of his lips, but Rivendell's steward seemed impatient, though his face remained a perfect mask of civility. Not for the first time, Merrill wondered if she had offended him.

"If you would, my Lady," Erestor indicated that they should continue down the hallway. "Lord Elrond is waiting."

"Yes." Merrill turned away from temptation and folded her hands in front of her. "Yes, of course."

She cringed as they began walking. Her toe still throbbed from her earlier tantrum on the mountain, and there was definitely less room in her converse than there had been previously. Merrill hoped that she would get to sit still, soon, so she might assess the damage.

Radhrion dropped back and offered her his arm. Merrill stared at it.

"This is the point, my dear, where you graciously accept the gentleman's arm and make attempts at polite conversation."

She made a show of peeking over his shoulder before retorting, "Show me a gentleman, and I'll give him my arm."

He snorted indelicately and they set off once more, Merrill's arm tucked securely around his own. She was amazed at the relief she felt; leaning on him eased the pain in her foot considerably.

When they'd walked in silence for a few moments, Radhrion said quietly, "I _thought_ you were limping. Why did you not say anything, Merilinith?"

"I wasn't sure of where I stood," she replied honestly.

He patted the hand that rested atop his forearm soothingly. "No matter your circumstances, Lord Elrond would see you treated well. You are a guest in his home, now, and with that title comes certain responsibilities on his part, as well as on yours, I suppose. He will accord you every respect and ensure your needs are met, within reason."

Merrill scoffed skeptically.

"Be at ease, êl tithen. You are safe here."

They came to a halt in front of a pair of heavy, wooden doors, intricately carved with bits of knot-work, impressions of trees, and thousands of falling leaves. It was a thing of beauty, and Merrill had to tear her eyes away.

Erestor had been speaking, but she'd missed it. He opened the door, inclining his head, and Radhrion led her into the room.

Lord Elrond's study was magnificent. Floor to ceiling shelves, covered in scrolls and books of all shapes, graced every wall. The parchment was old; its edges yellow and brittle. The ceiling was vaulted and white, with large, square inlets spaced evenly across its length, and a number of fine white beams in the shape of trees stretched down to sink their roots into the floor. The far wall was open to the elements and lead out onto a spacious balcony. Leaves skittered across the polished stone floor and gauzy, gray drapes swayed lazily in the wind. In the corners of the room were metal braziers, heaped high with glowing orange coals, and a small fireplace crackled and popped merrily in a tall grate. On a raised platform to the left of the doorway stood a large desk, its surface an amalgam of scrolls, feather quills, and inkpots. A silver goblet sat at the edge, its contents still steaming. And behind it all, striding towards them, was a male elf dressed in elegant robes of gray and silver that whispered with his movements.

Merrill very nearly forgot to breath. The elf had long, raven hair plaited back from his face, and thick, black brows. His dark gray eyes were level, clear, and framed by copious lashes, and a proud, straight nose led to slim pink lips. Etched around his mouth were deep parentheses, a sign that his life had not always brought him joy, and his chin was rounded but firm.

At the moment, those profound pools of silver were gentle with welcome, but Merrill could imagine them stormy with sorrow or rage. His back was straight, his arms settling easily at his sides, and his stride was confident and poised; he wore all the trappings of a scholar now, sure, but she recognized the bearing of someone well acquainted with battle beneath. Anne's brother (and Merrill's first boyfriend) had been in service, and he'd walked much the same way.

The Lord of Rivendell, for there was no one else he could possibly be, placed his hand over his heart. "Le nathlam hí, Radhrion; it has been many years since last I saw you." (1)

Radhrion returned the greeting. "Mae g'ovannen, Lord Elrond. It is a joy to be returned to your halls." (2)

Lord Elrond then turned to her, his eyes kind. "Le nathlam hí, Merilinith." Merrill gaped like a goldfish on dry land until Radhrion nudged her. Elrond hid a smile behind his hand at her blatant admiration, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

"Umm… Nice to meet you."

He waved his hand towards a grouping of couches besides the fire and called over his shoulder, "Erestor, please bring our guests some refreshment. I think tea and spiced wine, will do." He considered Merrill, whose stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly, "…Perhaps some fruit and cheese, as well."

Merrill perched nervously on the edge of a blue velvet chaise. She twiddled her thumbs round and round, glancing at everything and nothing in the hopes that activity might help her remain calm. Radhrion took a seat beside her and smiled encouragingly.

"Now," Lord Elrond sank into the only available seat and folded his hands across his lap. "Unless I am much mistaken, Radhrion would prefer we start with you, Merilinith. What brings you to Imladris?"

"Well," Merrill swallowed, her throat suddenly bone dry. "I'm not sure how to answer you, because I am unsure, myself." She saw that he was patiently waiting for her to continue. "So, what I mean to say is… I'm sort of not from around here?"

Elrond's face remained impassive; Radhrion didn't even look up from his hands.

"Would you explain what that means, exactly, Merilinith?"

Merrill's mind flashed back to History channel reenactments of the Salem witch trials and she gulped. "You guys don't have puritans here, do you?"

He blinked. "What are puritans?"

"Never mind," she ran her hands over her face, her fingers bumping into her elongated ears. "My name is Merrill. I'm human and from another time… or possibly the future? Or… from the real world? I was on my way to my dentists' office, which is smack dab in the middle of downtown, when I suddenly… wasn't." She finished lamely.

Elrond stroked his chin, "And when you were no longer ' _downtown_ '? Where were you, then?"

"I was in the forest, and Radhrion tried to shoot me."

Radhrion rolled his eyes. "You have a flare for the dramatic, Merilinith. I barely even drew my bow."

"Says you."

The Lord of Rivendell cleared his throat; Merrill looked away sheepishly. Radhrion grinned.

"So you were in the forest with Radhrion after being suddenly transported from your home. What happened next?" Elrond's attempts to keep them on task were admirable, but ultimately doomed to failure; Merrill was just too nervous, and Radhrion had appointed himself her caretaker.

"Ummm… we talked. He told me we were in Middle Earth and that I was an elf."

"You were not always an elf?"

"No… I was human. There are no elves or anything in my world."

This drew a similar lack of reaction, which piqued her interest. "Can I ask you something?" Merrill added as an afterthought, "… my Lord?"

"Please."

"Well, you don't seem all that surprised by any of this," she gestured vaguely to herself. "Which makes me think that this has happened before… Am I right?"

Elrond acknowledged Erestor's return and quickly furnished both Radhrion and herself with plates of fruit and cheese as well as goblets of spiced wine and tea, respectively. Only after everyone was situated, and Erestor had left, did Elrond answer, "Yes, it has."

Merrill leaned forward eagerly, her tea forgotten. "And? What happened? Did you send them home?"

Lord Elrond glanced at Radhrion before replying gravely, "Not I, and not exactly. I sent that individual to the Lady of the Galadhrim. It was she who provided them the answers they sought." When his response caused Merrill to visibly droop, he added, "Though she was not able to send them home, herself, she was able to assist them onto the path that was most likely to lead them there, according to her mirror."

 _Ah,_ Merrill thought. _Galadriel._

"And did it?" she asked.

"Did what, Merilinith?" Elrond replied, not unkindly.

"Did the path the Lady put them on lead them home?" _Please,_ she thought a little frantically. _Please tell me that they got home. Tell me that they survived this – that I'll survive this. Please._ Merrill tried not to let her anxiety show, but she was almost certain she failed; Radhrion pressed her hand.

"Yes. But the Lady of the Wood is seldom mistaken in matters such as these. If you would like, I could send you to Lothlorien with an escort in two months time. Perhaps she will be able to assist you."

Merrill's heart sunk into her stomach. _Two months? She would have to stay here, as an elf, for two months? Did time move the same back home? Her mother would be heartbroken; two months without knowing what had happened to your only child would wound any parent, but for Laura Mabray, it would be nothing less than torture. She was an active, take-charge sort of person; if something needed doing, she did it. If something needed fixed, she researched and then fixed it. If her only daughter went missing, she would approach it just the same; driving herself into the ground until she achieved the desired result. But even her determined mother wouldn't be able to pull her from another reality._

Radhrion bumped his knee against hers. His eyes were warm, sympathetic, and steady. Who needed words? Radhrion would help her through this. He wouldn't leave her alone. Quite suddenly, Merrill was seized with the desire to hug her strange, sarcastic elf friend until his eyes popped. She had stumbled upon him in one of the most frightening moments of her short life, and he had immediately, and without ceremony, taken her under his wing. _There's no way I would have survived without him. If he had walked just that little bit slower, or faster, I would have been stranded in the woods for anyone, or anything, to find._ Merrill's mind instantly conjured images of orcs and trolls from the movies, and she shuddered.

"Thank you," Merrill said, instead, patting the hand on her shoulder affectionately. "But," she turned her attention back to Elrond, who observed them with interest, "what would I do in the meantime? Is there anything I could do to, I don't know, pitch in? Be useful? I don't know what goes in to caring for so large a home in these times, but I'm decent at cleaning in my world. I can cook, a little, if the conditions are right, though, on second thought, that might be problematic as we don't kill our own animals my world, and I don't think I could bring myself to do it, here… I took horseback riding lessons as a kid, so I know how to muck out stalls, groom, and saddle pretty well." The two elves watched her with some amusement. She barely restrained herself from glowering; she wasn't some adorable puppy they had adopted from the pound, after all, and she would make sure they knew it. "I don't want to inconvenience you."

"My dear, you would be my guest. You would not be an inconvenience, I assure you. However," he paused, examining the firm set of her mouth, "if you would prefer to keep busy, I am certain a place can be found for you. Is that acceptable?"

Merrill nodded. "Yes, and I accept.. errr, my Lord." 

"Splendid. For now, though, I encourage you take some rest and refreshment before our evening meal. I will have Erestor escort you to your chambers. If you require anything, please do not hesitate to ask. And," he stood gracefully and she followed suit. "Welcome to Rivendell."

Merrill inclined her head, as seemed fitting. "Thank you, Lord Elrond."

She looked at her still seated friend, a question on her face, but he just flapped his hands at her. "Go on, êl tithen. I will come to collect you for supper."

When she hesitated, Radhrion straightened from his practiced pose of disinterested ease and said quietly, "I promise, little bird. Now go rest. That's an order."

She made a face to demonstrate just what she thought of his order before reluctantly allowing Erestor to lead her from the room.

Just as the door was closing, Merrill heard Elrond murmur, "He faltharya, hîr vuin." (3)

A heavy sigh and then: "Iston, mellon nin. Iston. (4)

The door closed and Merrill swallowed her curiosity. _Two months_. She watched Erestor's back as he led her down the corridor. _Two months until I can get back home. As long as I stay busy, I should be fine. I can't focus on what's happening back home; I can't do anything about that, now. All I can do is work towards solving this on my end._ She would need mountains of work, she knew, to keep from falling into an anxious spiral of despair. _I hope they've got a whole lotta dishes,_ she thought glumly.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Hey, again, lovely readers! Apparently, I can't stick to an update schedule. Which is good, because - hello - another chapter is published! But bad because, well, I only have about 4,000 words already written after this. So this absolutely MUST be the last chapter I publish for the next week! *scolds self sternly***

 **I hope you enjoyed it, because I had a blast writing it. Oh, Elrond! (I love the guy, in case that wasn't obvious). He has the most tragic backstory EVER but still manages to be a kind and gentle soul. Props to him.**

 **Review, like, follow, smoke-signal, rain dance, perform a blood sacrifice and possess my teddy bear, or however it is you prefer to communicate! I love to chat about ME and welcome constructive criticism.**

 **Best wishes ~**

(1) _You are welcome here. (F)._

(2) _You are well met. (I)._

(3) _She resembles her, my Lord. (F)._

(4) _I know, my friend. I know._


	4. Chapter 4

**My soul is leaving my body. This is the THIRD, thrice-cursed time I've tried to upload this chapter! Ugh!**

 **Anyway, Thank you to all who liked/followed my story - you make me grin like an addlepated fool. :)**

 **And special thanks to leelee202 (whose LOTR story I beta - go check it out!), Ragityannie, ColdOnePaul, Aralinn, and FromHellWithLove for their marvelous reviews - I damn near swooned with joy! Have a virtual cookie (and a contemplative, Lothlorien Legolas) for your trouble!**

* * *

 **"Lying under such a myriad of stars. The sea's black horizon. He rose and walked out and stood barefoot in the sand and watched the pale surf appear all down the shore and roll and crash and darken again. When he went back to the fire he knelt and smoothed her hair as she slept and he said if he were God he would have made the world just so and no different" - Cormac McCarthy**

* * *

ooOoo

Erestor left Merrill at her chambers with terse efficiency. He informed her that a maid would be by, shortly, to assist her in whatever ways she needed and then bid her a clipped farewell.

 _Well, that solves that riddle, then._ Erestor was definitely not her biggest fan.

Merrill closed the door before leaning back against it and shutting her eyes. Much was changing, she knew. But the only way she was going to overcome this was to fake it till she made it. And keep distracted at all costs. Merrill knew the moment she was left to her thoughts they would eat her alive. With that in mind, she set to exploring her new home. The chamber, itself, was modest in size. It contained a wardrobe, a twin bed, two nightstands, and a vanity of some sort, with a slightly wavy glass mirror that made her cringe. She didn't need to be reminded of her very pointed ears, thank you very much.

Another doorway led to a bathroom. In one corner stood a sturdy copper tub that damn near had her panting like a dog with a milkbone; she couldn't wait to try it out. Behind a sort of privacy curtain at the opposite end was a stone bench with a wooden seat. _A privy_ , she realized. _An honest-to-goodness privy._ With a zeal she did not know she possessed, she internally grieved the lack of modern plumbing and prayed to whatever gods existed in this godforsaken reality to implement some. Stat.

Beside the privy was a stack of some sort of paper, and just in front of that stood a brazier and a stand full of sand. She supposed the brazier was to burn the paper, and the sand… well, best not to think on that too hard. _This is temporary,_ she reminded herself. _I can live with this for two months. I mean, I went camping that one time in Girl Scouts, and the restroom situation was pretty much identical to this, and I survived, then._

 _Barely,_ her practical and overly honest self pointed out.

Merrill returned to her room and flopped down on her bed. The sheets were white and crisp and smelled of lavender and sunshine. She inhaled deeply and ordered herself to relax.

A crisp knock came almost immediately at the door, and Merrill called, "Come in!"

A dark haired elf with gray eyes swept into the room. She wore an amethyst gown with a golden girdle set low on her hips, and her sleeves were overlong and wide, making her every gesture a production.

 _Che cavolo! Would it kill whatever gods had created this world to make a single average looking elf? Just one?_ She had to get out of here before Middle Earth killed her self-esteem. (1)

The beautiful elf bobbed a curtsey before smiling shyly at Merrill from beneath her dark lashes. "Le nathlam hí, my Lady. My name is Cailiel. Lord Elrond has instructed me to care for you while you remain under his protection."

"Thank you, Callal… Calleel..." Merrill lumbered through the syllables like a bull in a china shop; a drunken bull hopped up on starbursts and five-hour energy.

Cailiel interrupted her, and Merrill couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped her. "It is 'Kay-Lee-El'."

"Cailiel - I'll remember that. My name is Merrill, it's nice to meet you."

The other elf dumped a pile of clothing onto the bed beside her and smiled. "Your name is lovely. Our people have had only one nightingale in our history, but I am pleased to find another."

Merrill's confusion must have shown on her face, for Cailiel said, "Your name. It means nightingale. I apologize; I was informed that you did not speak Elvish, but I must have forgotten. As to the first nightingale, that was Luthien Tinuviel. She was the most beautiful elf in all of Arda and she fell in love with Beren, a mortal man. Surely you've heard this tale, before?"

"No…" Merrill shook her head and asked, "Will you tell it to me?"

Cailiel snapped a dress in an attempt to remove the wrinkles. "Well, it's not a happy tale. And quite a long one. It ends with death for them both."

"Wait, what do you mean? Wasn't Luthien an elf?"

"Yes… but she gave up her immortality to be with Beren. The choice was given to her by Mandos."

"Oh!" understanding dawned. "So just like Arago-" She clapped her hands over her mouth and attempted to conceal her words by coughing.

"Just like who, dear?" Cailiel asked absently.

"Nothing. I was confused. So what happened in between?"

"Well, Beren was ordered by King Thingol, Luthien's father, to steal a silmaril from Morgoth's mighty crown and give it to him if he wished to marry Luthien. Luthien was enraged, and so, too, was Melian, for it was a task that would lead to nothing but death; no mortal could ever hope to survive such an encounter with the dark Vala. But Thingol was adamant. Beren would return with a silmaril or he would not grant him his daughter's hand."

Merrill tucked her knees up beneath her chin. "What an ass."

Cailiel's expression became quizzical. "I beg your pardon?"

She waved her question away. "What's a silmaril?"

"It is a jewel that holds the light of the sacred trees of Valinor. They are supposedly the most beautiful in the world, and desperately coveted by many."

Merrill made a mental note to avoid all jewelry in Middle Earth; shiny baubles just weren't worth it when they might contain the soul of a dead villain or some mystical tree light that made people greedy. "What happened, then? Beren didn't go after this silmaril, did he?"

Cailiel's lips twisted. "He did, at that. Beren left Luthien behind and began his journey to Morgoth's stronghold. But he was intercepted and imprisoned by two of the sons of Feanor, the elf who created the silmarils. Finrod, the elven king of Naglathond, was captured, too, along with all of his men. None survived but Beren, and that because King Finrod chose to die for him. They were friends, you see."

"How did Beren survive, then?"

"Luthien, of course," Cailiel said proudly. "She was not content to wait at home whilst her fëa mate courted certain death. And so, going against her father's wishes, she escaped from the tower in which she was locked and flew across the land. She was briefly captured by Curufin and Celegorm, two of the sons of Feanor, but escaped with the help of Huan, Celegorm's hound. When she came upon Angband, Sauron's fortress, she demanded he submit to her. He refused, and, with Huan by her side, she attacked. Huan injured Sauron and slaughtered a whole army of werewolves. Ashamed and injured, Sauron transformed into a vampire and fled, leaving Luthien in control of his tower. She raced to the dungeons and set Beren free, but she insisted he take her with him if he were to continue his quest."

"As she should. He wouldn't have even survived if she hadn't disobeyed him in the first place. They were stronger together. I don't get why men in fairytales don't understand this," Merrill agreed earnestly.

"May I continue?"

"Yes."

"And so they set off. Much happened: Luthien transformed herself and Beren into the likenesses of two of the enemy to gain entry into Morgoth's domain and then sang he and his court to sleep, allowing Beren to steal the silmaril. But just as Beren was prying the stone from Morgoth's crown, his dagger slipped and cut Morgoth's cheek. The dark lord awoke and Beren and Luthien fled. But they were intercepted." Cailiel paused for dramatic effect, and Merrill crawled across her coverlet and poked her.

"You are more impatient than an elfling!" she admonished, but there wasn't any bite to it. "They were stopped by Carcharoth, the true opponent of Huan and a giant werewolf. Before they could do aught else, Carcharoth ripped the hand holding the silmaril from Beren's wrist and swallowed. But the silmaril burned him from within and he ran, crazed, out of sight. The eagles came and flew them back to her father's kingdom. After they'd explained all that had happened, Thingol softened and allowed their marriage. They were happy for a few, brief years, until tragedy struck."

Merrill smacked her lightly with a pillow. "What tragedy?!"

Cailiel huffed. "If you cannot behave like a proper elleth, then we will finish this tale another time."

"I'll be the properest elleth of all elleths," Merril swore, not even caring to learn what an 'elleth' was. "Scouts honor."

The elf scrutinized her dubiously, but sighed and continued. "Carcharoth had been sighted outside their kingdom. Beren and Huan went out to meet him in battle, and they managed to kill the fell beast, but both were slain in the process. With his dying breath, Beren gave the lost silmaril (taken from Carcharoth's stomach) into King Thingol's hand and departed this life. Luthien faded from grief at this loss. Upon coming to Mandos's halls, herself, she began to sing of her heartbreak, lamenting the fact that, even in death, she would never see her beloved again. Her sweet voice touched Mandos' heart, and he returned Beren and Luthien, both, to life. But Luthien would have to make a choice: lose her love forever, or die with him when the time came. Luthien accepted mortality and they returned to Arda, moving to Ossiriand where she lived out the rest of her days beside Beren and died a mortal death."

"So, does Luthien mean nightingale?" Merrill finally asked once she could speak around the emotion in her throat.

"No. Beren named her Tinuviel, nightingale, upon first laying eyes upon her dancing in a meadow of flowers. From that very moment he claimed his heart was no longer his own."

Merrill considered this as Cailiel worked her way through the pile of dresses; Luthien and Beren, then, were the original Arwen and Aragorn.

"Now," Cailiel held up a deep red gown and said enthusiastically. "What do you say to crimson?"

"I say, 'Where are the pants?'"

Cailiel laughed, a tinkling sound that lifted Merrill's spirits. "I can, of course, provide you with breeches and a tunic, if you would prefer. Though it might be wise to wear them another time if you are to dine tonight with the Lords and Lady of Rivendell."

Merrill did her best to conceal her distaste.

Cailiel held it up, once more. "I will not cinch the laces tightly. I swear it."

Merrill acceded with bad grace.

"Excellent! Would you care to bathe before I ready you for dinner, my Lady?"

She squirmed with excitement. "Yes, please! And please don't call me 'my Lady'; I'm just plain Merrill. No need to stand on ceremony, here. I mean, I smacked you with a pillow – we're practically related."

"You have peculiar views on what constitutes kinship, but I will do as you ask. I shall return, _Merrill_ , with your bath water directly." Cailiel began to curtsey but met Merrill's narrowed eyes and chose to dip her head, instead.

She would break these elves of their empty courtesies if it was the last thing she did.

 _One elf down_ , she thought wearily, _only a thousand more to go._

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **You know the drill, my darlings! Favorite, Follow, Review, Yodel, Mime, or play something by the Irish Rovers on the flugel horn at 2:37 in the morning to the stray cat in the alley behind your neighbor's garage... you know the one. But talk to me! I welcome constructive criticism!**

 **Best Wishes ~ (Please, all things good in this world, let this be the last time I have to retype all of this!)**

 _(1) What the hell? (Lit. What cabbage). Italian  
_


	5. Chapter 5

**"How long, baby, have I been away?  
Oh, it feels like ages though you say it's only days.  
There ain't language for the things I've seen.  
And the truth is stranger than my own worst dreams.  
The truth is stranger than all my dreams.  
Oh, the darkness got a hold on me.**

 **I have seen what the darkness does.  
Say goodbye to who I was.  
I ain't never been away so long.  
Don't look back them days are gone.  
Follow me into the endless night.  
I can bring your fears to life.  
Show me yours and I'll show you mine.  
Meet me in the woods tonight"**

 **\- Lord Huron, 'Meet Me in the Woods.'**

* * *

ooOoo

Cailiel, Merrill was beginning to suspect, was actually some sort of humanoid tornado in an elf's body. As soon as the line of elves carrying buckets of steaming hot water had unloaded their burdens in the tub and made their exit, she pounced. Merrill was towed into the bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub, and her hair was brushed to within an inch of its life. Then she had ordered Merrill to disrobe and get into the bath. Merrill was relieved when Cailiel waited outside; she'd been half afraid the assertive she-elf was going to insist upon washing her hair.

When Merrill was finished, Cailiel began to work on her long, dark hair. Her swift hands worked some sort of oil from root to tip and Merrill nearly went cross-eyed from pleasure. As a child, her mother had spent hours braiding her thick, curly hair. She would sigh enviously while cursing her own straight locks. Merrill's grandfather had been Korean, her grandmother, Italian, so her mother had basically won the genetic lottery. She had the perfect, golden skin tone, beautiful, thick black hair, wide, expressive eyes, and full lips. Merrill, on the other hand, had inherited her father's pale, freckled skin, curly hair, and long nose. Nothing but the cast and color of her eyes, the line of her jaw, and the curve of her lips had she inherited from her mother in terms of appearance.

With little warning, Cailiel popped a dress over Merrill's head and briskly ordered her to remove her towel. She obliged, using the dress as a tent before settling her arms in the sleeves. Then the elf rubbed something that tasted of berries on her lips and patted what Merrill though might be lotion onto her face.

Cailiel stood back, analyzing the effect, before clapping her hands once together and whirling to the other side of the room. She returned with a small jar of balm that made Merrill's eyes water.

"What is _that_? It smells like something died."

"Now, you," Cailiel chided lightly. "This is a balm Lord Elrond made, especially, for broken bones and bruises. By tomorrow morning, your toe will be healed and the pain will be gone."

Merrill was impressed, but said nothing, allowing the elf to dab the balm carefully around her toe.

When she finally stood, Merrill asked, somewhat exasperatedly, "Well? Am I acceptable?"

The she-elf tapped her lips before smiling. "Yes, you'll do, Merrill. You may go. I will leave your nightdress out on your bed for your return."

Merrill made her way to the door. She placed her hand upon the knob and said, somewhat shyly, "Thank you for all of your help, Cailiel. And the story."

Before the elf could respond, she opened the door and slipped into the hall. Radhrion was waiting, leaning against the opposite wall.

"Are you ready, êl tithen?" He held his arm out to her, and, this time, Merrill accepted it without complaint.

Radhrion walked slowly, which surprised Merrill. The whole hike to Rivendell had been performed at speeds only seen in Red Bull commercials and Nascar races; so great was his eagerness. But now Merrill noted the tightness in his shoulders and around his lips; the haunted expression in his eyes. _What exactly had Elrond told him that had upset him this much?_ She wondered.

"Are you okay, Radhrion?"

"If you are asking whether or not I am well, then I would have to say 'no'. Elrond cannot help me and I do not yet know where I am to go from here."

Merrill's head jerked up in alarm. "What do you mean? Are you leaving?"

"I cannot say. I fully expected to find both answers and assistance, here, but," he rubbed his eyes tiredly, "this is no longer the case. I have been left with very little recourse. I know that I must leave to seek out others who might aid me, but I have already come from one such place, and my efforts proved just as futile," Radhrion pulled his hand from hers and rested his forehead against the wall with a gentle thump. "I am tired, little bird. The long years of my life weigh heavily upon me; how they rankle, fester, and gnaw! No peace shall I find - nor rest. Not even in these hallowed halls." He shut his eyes and she noticed the light, crescent-shaped bruises beneath his lower lashes. Merrill wondered when he had last slept.

She chewed her lip; _how was she supposed to even begin to comfort an immortal being lost in the throes of what appeared to be an existential crisis? She couldn't even handle her own!_

Before she could form any sort of response, though, he whispered, "A'maelamin! Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham.'"

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, tentatively. Radhrion had demonstrated his aversion to sharing personal details almost immediately upon meeting her. Merrill didn't wish to upset him further by prying, but she did not know how else to help.

Radhrion cracked an eye open and smiled ruefully. "Hannon le, Merilinith - I thank you. But I will be well again, soon. I shall not succumb to despair – not while hope yet lives." He inhaled sharply through his nose, pulling his playful persona back around himself as one might a jacket in a strong, cold wind, and then pushed off the wall. "Shall we? Lord Elrond, while an exceptionally pleasant host, is not particularly fond of tardiness, and I, myself, am famished."

Merrill availed herself of his arm and chose to ignore his rather clumsy attempts to change the subject. If he did not want to talk, she wasn't going to force him. Instead, she squeezed his arm with her own in silent reassurance. _I'm here for you, you stubborn elf,_ she thought.

He squeezed back.

ooOoo

Radhrion led her to a small room off Lord Elrond's study. The room was intimate in size and decoration. In alcoves spaced evenly along the walls were brass braziers that radiated heat. A long, wooden table stood in the middle. It was set with fine, bone china, gleaming silverware, and a delicate lace runner that draped elegantly down both ends. Above, a wrought iron chandelier dripped with wax from the fifty or so candles it held.

And the smells! Merrill could smell fresh bread, wine, and something distinctly basil-like that made her mouth water.

"You know," Radhrion whispered against her ear, his breath setting her black curls dancing. "Your expression has put me strongly in mind of a dear, old friend I had as a child."

"Who was she?" Merrill asked distractedly, her nose still sifting the air.

Radhrion grinned wickedly. "My dog."

"Na vedui! We were just discussing a search party." An elf with long, black hair, Elrond's chin, and dancing silver eyes leapt from his seat and rushed over to greet them. (1)

"Hannon le, Elladan." Radhrion twisted his hand over his heart, affection in his eyes. "It has been many years since last I walked your father's halls, and their beauty was too tempting to be overcome." (2)

"Gi nathlam hí, Radhrion!" Another elf, identical to the one before them, bounded up alongside his twin brother and enfolded Radhrion in a fierce embrace. "Last I saw you, you promised to return within a year's time! You are shamefully late." (3)

"Goheno nin, Elrohir. A thousand apologies. Events were such that it was not within my power to keep my promise." (4)

Merrill edged away from the scene unfolding beside her. It was too personal, and something about the outpouring of love left a rock in the pit of her stomach. She turned back towards the table and was surprised to find an elven woman beside her, a patient smile on her creamy red lips and the faintest glimmer of starlight in her deep blue eyes.

 _No way..._ Merrill's brain came to a standstill. _This had to be -_

"I am Arwen." She performed the elven greeting, her fist over her heart. "I apologize for my brothers' rudeness. It would please me greatly to assure you that such a display will never happen again, but I am afraid that that is a promise well beyond man, elf, or Vala to make."

 _Every damn time I get used to their stupidly attractive faces, a new elf springs up and takes me by surprise!_ Merrill complained internally. Aloud, she said, "There's no need to apologize. I'm Merrill… errr… Merilinith. But I prefer Merrill, if you don't mind."

"I do not mind, Merrill. But come – you must be starved. My ill-mannered brothers can fend for themselves." Arwen wrapped her arm around her shoulders and began to lead her to the table where, for the first time, she noticed Lord Elrond waiting.

He stood and pulled out a chair, waiting politely for her to settle herself before resuming his own and calling smilingly, "Radhrion! Tolo, govano ven! Do not let my sons' enthusiasm keep you from your meal." (5)

"I _am_ rather hungry, you two." Radhrion grabbed the twins, one under either arm, and dragged them, laughing, to the table. "Let us sit and dine like civilized beings for now and later you may regale me with tales of your latest mischief; you know how greatly I enjoy them."

"Gwestog, Radhrion?" Both twins said in perfect unison. They beamed at each other. (6)

Radhrion sighed in mock resignation. "Yes, yes. I promise – Now let an old man eat, for Elbereth's sake."

The twins sat without another word. Merrill peered at Radhrion as he settled beside their host. He placed a cloth napkin on his lap before taking Lord Elrond's empty plate and filling it. Elrond said something in elvish and Radhrion's reply made him choke on his wine. Radhrion performed the same service for Arwen, who practically glowed with pleasure at the gesture. Merrill's heart began to ache at the familiarity between them all. _This wasn't her home. These people weren't her family. She had no place being here._ Merrill stared down at her hands and bit her lip to keep it from quivering.

"Merilinith, is it?"

Merrill ran the back of her hand across her cheeks and attempted to appear cheerful. One of the twins, who sat beside her, examined her curiously. "Merrill, actually. And I'm afraid I didn't catch your names."

The twin furthest from her elbowed his brother. "That would be this one's fault – he's the youngest, you know. I'm Elladan." He bowed in his seat politely. "This blockhead's Elrohir."

The youngest took exception to this. "Elladan would tell you, if he had any brains at all, that I am the youngest by seventeen minutes, only – hardly enough life experience to hold over my head, do not you agree, Merrill?"

"I'm going to stay out of it, if it's all the same to you." Merrill sipped from the crystal glass before her while the twins protested her response. It tasted like cranberry juice mixed with some sort of spice. "I've only just arrived, and I would hate to insult anyone quite so soon."

"' _Quite so soon'_?" Elladan teased. "So you have plans to insult us all in future, then? Do you have it all mapped out? Hour by hour? ' _Two hours after noon, insult Erestor for his abominable rudeness; tell him he smells funny. Three hours and a half after noon, insult Elrohir for his lack of manners; tell him he eats like an orc._ ' That sort of thing?"

Merrill folded her napkin deliberately and said coolly, "Keep it up and the future will be coming a lot sooner than you think."

He laughed a loud, full-throated laugh that sent shivers skittering up and down her spine. _How could such enchanting beings exist? Even their freaking voices made her melt…_ When Merrill realized where her thoughts were going, she yanked hard on her mental reins. _No. No. NO! Bad, Merrill! Very, very bad!_

"It would be no insult, Merrill." Elrohir interrupted. "It is common knowledge that I am the more handsome brother." He puffed out his chest and did his best to look dashing.

Elladan smacked his brother's shoulder good-naturedly. "Dôl gîn lost, Elrohir. You insult yourself by insulting me - we're twins!" (7)

A large hand appeared before her and Merrill followed it all the way up to find Radhrion standing behind her holding her plate. Piled high upon it were greens and what looked like some primitive version of pesto. And atop it all, balanced precariously on a bed of spinach, was a crusty piece of bread.

"Eat, little bird." Radhrion placed her plate before her and ruffled her hair. "And stop teasing her, troublemakers!" he scolded the twins before returning to his own meal.

"Oh!" Elrohir exclaimed, staring unhappily at her plate. "We forgot our manners, again. Goheno nin. But here," he snatched up her goblet and switched it out with another. "You'll enjoy this much more than that spiced juice."

Merrill glanced apprehensively into the goblet, examining its contents. The liquid was clear and colorless. She cautiously brought it to her nose and sniffed: it smelled faintly of lemons, mandarin oranges, and something else she couldn't place. "What exactly is it?"

Elladan lowered his voice and cupped a hand to his mouth. "You can't tell father, but it's Miruvor."

When she continued to stare at him blankly, Elladan explained, "Miruvor is especially difficult to produce and is, therefore, quite precious. We use it to stave off fatigue, to lift our spirits, to warm our bodies, and what have you. But it is not alcohol and it is entirely safe." As if to prove his point, he reached over and took her goblet, taking a small sip before returning it. "See?"

Merrill squinted at the pair. They blinked back, their faces wreathed in innocence.

"This had better not be a joke," she grumbled darkly. And, in a move that would later leave her questioning her sanity, she swallowed it down in one go. It was an explosion of flavor on her tongue; raspberries, lemons, blackberries, oranges, apples, coconut, strawberry jam, ginger, and honey inundated her taste buds and left a pleasant buzz fizzing beneath her skin. Her cheeks flushed, the room pulsed with light, her muscles loosened, and she felt happier than she had ever been in her life. "This is maaaaaarvelous," she giggled and upended the goblet over her waiting tongue, shaking it impatiently when it did not produce the desired result. "There's no moooore, guys."

"Merrill - " Elrohir began, his brow furrowed.

"Shhhhh, pretty. I've gotta talk to Ronny." She leaned as far forward as she could and slapped her hands down on the table. The dishes rattled. "Raaaaadhrion!"

The elf in question took one look at her before rounding on the twins. "Man agoreg?!" (8)

"Uhunc ylf ernedui – Miruvor!" One of the twins said. (9)

"Miruvor would not have done this!"

Elrond ignored his sons and peeled back her eyelids, opened her mouth, felt her forehead, and pressed two fingers to her neck.

"Where's Radhrion?" Merrill slurred happily. "He's my bestie. My elfy bestie. Best bestie beastie." She stopped, frowning, and hiccoughed. "Beastie?"

"There, there, my dear. Radhrion is here." Elrond fixed his eyes sternly upon his sons. "She will be fine, she is just… intoxicated."

"But Miruvor is not a spirit. How is that possible?" Arwen came to Merrill's other side and began sponging her feverish forehead with a napkin dipped in cool water. Merrill could have kissed her, and she told her so.

"Oh, well, thank you, Merrill." Arwen's voice was getting further and further away; the room spun behind her face.

"That is not important now. Radhrion?"

Merrill felt the world shift. Her head fell forward onto a firm surface and she snuggled closer, a happy sigh leaving her. "Ronny?"

"Shh, little bird." The chest beneath her ear rumbled. "Get some rest."

She tried to tell him that he smelled really good, like fire and sea salt and books, but her tongue felt thick in her mouth and her eyes kept closing.

"I will be here when you wake, êl tithen. Ollo vae." (10)

Merrill thought she might have smiled. But then the darkness of sleep raced up to meet her, and she fell over the edge of consciousness and into the land of dreams.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Hey there, lovelies! Thank you all for your support; it means so much to know that there are people out there who are reading this and enjoying it!  
**

 **Special thanks to leelee202, Tidbits, FromHellWithLove, Aralinn, LadyConfidential, and lovingvamp346 for your awesome reviews. I honestly smiled at each one.**

 **Now on to news: my plan was to update every week, but I'm in grad school and it's the end of the semester. I'm being slammed with exams, papers, and presentations, so it might take me a bit longer to update until December. But I promise I'll do my best!**

 **I hope you all continue to enjoy and that, wherever you are in this world of ours, you are happy, healthy, and safe.**

 **Best wishes ~**

(1) _At last!_

(2) _Thank you._

(3) _You are welcome here._

(4) _Forgive me._

(5) _Come, join us._

(6) _Do you promise?_

(7) _Your head is empty._

(8) _What did you do? (I)_

(9) _She had too much to drink – Miruvor!_

(10) _Sweet dreams._


	6. Chapter 6

**"We are all sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life"**

 **-Tennessee Williams**

ooOoo

When Merrill awoke, it was full dark out. Silvery moonlight shot across the floor and the foot of her bed, illuminating the room. _This was Rivendell. These were her rooms._

 _What had happened?_ She remembered dinner and speaking with the twins… and something about a Mirror drink… Recollection slapped her across the face and anger filtered up her body. _I'm going to kill them,_ Merrill determined furiously. _But… what happened, afterwards? How did I get here?_

Merrill surfaced from her thoughts and glanced about her room. She wished she hadn't. It was silent. Dead silent. It was silent, and dark, and there were no distractions. There was no T.V., or books, or music, or games, or…

The stirrings of anxiety blossomed in her chest. She didn't have an open balcony like the rest of Rivendell, but a wall, so not even the wind kept her company. No matter how hard she strained, she could not even make out the sound of the waterfall, or the voices of the elves as they went about their lives. She didn't hear dogs barking, or horns honking, or tires screeching, or cars backfiring, or anything! There were no knocks on doors from friendly mail carriers, no lawn mowers buzzing, or weed whackers churning. There were no sirens, no steady hum of traffic, no music bumping out of open car windows, and no church bells.

Merrill rolled onto her back and began the breathing exercise her therapist had taught her to keep her calm. _Inhale to seven, hold to seven, exhale to seven. Repeat. Inhale_ … Merrill's eyes caught on the mirror and the alien reflection of what was left of her human face met her.

Her mind went blank.

She forgot the count and inhaled sharply, but there was no room for air in her already full lungs. A moment of primal panic overtook her as her body tried frantically to reestablish the rhythm of her breathing. Merrill's lungs scrabbled for air, straining and struggling against her fear, until she choked and coughed and spluttered, tears streaming from her eyes and dripping into her ears. _This was… this was not good. This was really, seriously not good._ _I'm an alien – I'm not even human, anymore. Oh no –_ Merrill's mind stuttered to a complete stop. _Will I still be all… elfy when I get home?_ Thoughts of government agencies with secret agendas and a building with a big ' **51** ' painted on the outside churned through her mind; vicious looking needles, white rooms with white, padded walls, and a metal door with no windows. She saw guards with shiny, black tazers and batons sliding her canned food through a locked flap in the door while she begged and sobbed to see her family. _'What are you?' They would question._ They would take her blood, and samples from her bones and flesh. They would laugh as she screamed. Then they'd cut off her ears. _Stay calm, Merrill. You're having an anxiety attack. Breathe. You've gotta breathe._

 _No one would hear her. No one would find her. She was alone_. Merrill curled up around herself and gave up.

ooOoo

Minutes, or maybe hours, passed. She wasn't sure of anything, anymore, least of all time. Time seemed too logical a construct for a world that could tear you from one life only to throw you, shrieking, into another.

Her room was still quiet, but Merrill was too hollow to care. The pounding in her head was loud enough, anyway. It pulsed and ached with each beat of her heart and she groaned aloud at the pain.

"At the risk of sounding foolish, I must ask: what exactly happened to you, last night?"

Merrill rolled to her side and peered blearily at the person beside her bed. _Radhrion._ The numbness drained out of her body. Radhrion's smile was meant to be reassuring, but it was shadowed. A tear fell down her cheek. And then another.

"Come, now, little bird. What has upset you so?" Radhrion's fingers hovered over her face. "Little bird?" He tried again. "…Merrill. Please, tell me what happened?"

"I was alone," she croaked.

Radhrion began to comb the hair back from her face with fingers that shook. "I didn't leave your side until three hours after midnight, and it is only just dawn, now. You were not alone, Merrill."

"I am alone," she repeated dully. "I used to think I liked being alone. I made a point of setting aside 'me' time every week." Merrill laughed ironically. "And I got my wish. I can have all the 'me' time I want, now. Being stranded in an alternate reality without a soul you know, without your family, your friends, your… phone, gives you all the solitude you could want. I'm on an island of alone."

A frustrated noise came from his throat before he stood and nudged her aside so he could lay down and lean against her headboard. With one, fluid movement, Radhrion pulled her head onto his chest and wrapped his arms around her. He murmured against her hair, "You know you are not alone, little bird. You have me. I swear I will help you find your way home."

Merrill couldn't help herself: she cried some more. But this time, the tears were those of relief.

Radhrion stroked her hair and sang quietly:

 _"Don't say_

 _We have come now to the end_

 _White shores are calling_

 _You and I will meet again._

 _And you'll be here in my arms_

 _Just sleeping._

 _What can you see_

 _On the horizon?_

 _Why do the white gulls call?_

 _Across the sea_

 _A pale moon rises_

 _The ships have come_

 _To carry you home._

 _And all will turn to silver glass_

 _A light on the water_

 _Grey ships pass_

 _Into the West."_ (1)

It was a sad song, but a hopeful one, too. It reflected just how she was feeling. There was sadness for all she had lost, but there was hope in what she had gained. She had someone in this world who cared for her. And, for now, that would have to be enough.

 **A/N:**

 **Phew. That was like pulling teeth, I swear. Hopefully, it did what it was supposed to so we can move on to more hijinks and adorable bonding between Ronny and Merrill.** **And I promise a longer chapter, soon! I have 40,000 words already written, I just have to go through and do my editing/fact checking before posting.**

 **Thanks to Shetan20, LadyConfidential, leelee202, Killercupcakes, ColdOnePaul, TheGrownUp, and FromHellWithLove for your reviews. I say it every time, but my heart fills with gladness when I read them.**

 **And thanks to all who followed/favorited - I totally DON'T jump up and down in delight when I get the notifications. Nope. Not at all.**

 **(1) "Into the West," by: Fran Walsh, Howard Shore, and Annie Lennox**


	7. Chapter 7

**"She followed slowly, taking a long time,**

 **As though there were some obstacles in the way;**

 **And yet: as though,**

 **once it was overcome,**

 **She would be** **beyond all walking**

 **And would fly."**

 **-Rainier Maria Rilke**

ooOoo

The next morning her room was awash in sunlight. The drapes were pulled wide, a vase of bright white flowers was on her bedside table, and a fire sizzled cheerfully in the grate.

The door eased open and Radhrion entered with a tray. "Good morning, little bird. I've brought you some porridge, fresh apples, and a pot of herbal tea that should do wonders for your headache."

Merrill watched him place the whole thing on a table beside the fire. Only when the bowls were set just so did he look over his shoulder, one dark brow arched in query. "You will be joining me for breakfast at some point, won't you?"

She was surprised at the way he was handling things. Merrill had expected there to be some awkwardness after all that had passed the previous night, but Radhrion was still perfectly himself: sarcastic, a little condescending, and entirely too sweet for his own good. Suddenly, the world did not seem like such a frightening place, after all. Merrill rolled out of bed and stretched. "I smell meat."

Radhrion whipped a napkin off the table and placed it over his arm before pulling out her chair. "My lady has had a difficult evening. Her humble servant believed that such fare would be welcome. Your humble servant has also taken the liberty of providing you a selection of handmade fruit pies for afters, in case my lady has a sweet tooth." His voice was so stiff and his accent so exacting, Merrill almost thought Erestor was in the room.

Her stomach rumbled unpleasantly, and her mouth watered at the smell. _When was the last time she'd had meat? Three days? Four?_ "Well, I would like to start with the fruit pies, then, and maybe some of that meat. And please, dear god, stop speaking that way! You sound so much like Erestor it's giving me indigestion."

The glare she received for that particular comment made her smirk; she was starting to feel more herself.

"Here," Radhrion filled her dish. "Eat, you little ingrate." She heard him mutter something about 'Erestor', 'indigestion', and 'ungrateful children' as he selected his own meal.

"Wait a second – you eat meat? I thought elves were vegetarians?"

Radhrion held her eyes with his own and deliberately ate a piece of the meat.

Merrill raised her hands in defense. "Okay, I get it. You're not most elves, right?"

He laughed at that. "Indeed, I am not. However, do not think that compliment entitles you to my forgiveness for your earlier comment. Erestor, indeed," he harrumphed.

"How do you say, 'I'm sorry', or 'forgive me', in Elvish?" She asked, spooning a dollop of thick, golden honey onto her porridge.

"'Goheno nin' will suffice for both." He lifted his teacup to his lips and sipped delicately. "If you should like to try and say it, I would be more than willing to listen."

She put her spoon down and cleared her throat. Radhrion watched her with some interest.

"Dear, darling, sweet Radhrion," Merrill clasped her hands together before her in a dramatic appeal. "Goheno nin!"

"And for that," Radhrion said imperiously, his shoulders thrown back and his chin raised. "You don't get to have dessert." He snatched the plate of pies and bolted out the door.

"Radhrion! You'd better get back here!"

Merrill had no choice but to chase him.

ooOoo

After discovering Radhrion in the garden with an empty plate and a guilty expression, Merrill returned to her rooms, her heart light and her mind set. Until she could leave for Lothlorien, she would throw herself into whatever work Lord Elrond assigned her wholeheartedly. She would not lose herself to fear, again.

With that resolution in mind, Merrill dressed in the blue gown Cailiel had laid on her bed and made her way in the direction of Lord Elrond's study. If she was to keep busy, she had to know what it was she would be doing.

She turned down a familiar looking hall and came up short. A remarkably tall, blond elf stood outside Elrond's door. His hair was longer than any she had yet seen, reaching the small of his back in an abundance of gold. His jaw was strong and sharp, his cheekbones angular, his nose long and straight. When he heard her approach, the full force of his eyes settled upon her. They were the blue of glaciers. A ring of cobalt ringed the outer edge of his iris, and gold flecks radiated out from his pupils like fractures in ice.

"You must be Merrill." He didn't smile.

"Yes. And you are?"

"Glorfindel." The tall elf inclined his head.

Merrill wracked her brain. _Why don't I remember a Glorfindel? Maybe he wasn't important to the story?_ She took him in, again, and decided that that could not be the case; strength and charisma practically flowed off him. Wisdom sat on his brow and joy and good humor flickered around his lips. _No, I definitely would not have forgotten him if he was in the movies… maybe the books?_ Merrill had read the books about a thousand years ago (translation: thirteen years) and her memories of it were not as clear as she might have liked.

"It is nice to meet you, Glorfindel." Merrill tried out the hand twist and hoped she hadn't accidentally flipped him off in elven.

"Alatúlië. I believe Lord Elrond is expecting us both," he said as he held the door for her. "If you would?" (1).

Merrill redirected her gaze and marched in. Though he was at least seven feet tall, Merrill could only tell Glorfindel followed behind her because of his smell; freesias and the smell of the cool night air clung to his clothing.

The Lord of Rivendell stood at their entrance and indicated two chairs before his desk. "Merrilinith, how are you feeling?"

"Oh, I'm alright, Lord Elrond."

Elrond observed her closely as she sat, and she did her best not to fidget under his scrutiny. _Did elves not realize how potent their gazes were?_

"Please forgive my sons their enthusiasm. They truly did not expect you to have such a reaction. The fault is mine for not explaining your situation to them. Goheno nin."

Merrill tried to bat his apology away with her hands, a little embarrassed by his grave demeanor. "It's alright. Shi- errr, stuff happens. There is nothing to forgive, though I don't think I will be trying Miruvor again anytime soon."

He smiled. "No, I expect not. Now," Elrond said, his tone brisk though his face became its usual serene mask. "I have been considering your request for occupation, and I have determined that you would be best suited to work at the training fields and in the healer's halls. Both areas require another set of skilled hands, and I believe you are admirably suited. Will these do?"

The silver button on her sleeve was loose and her fingers dug at it while she mulled his suggestion over. She didn't feel she was suited for either occupation; the closest thing she had to medical knowledge was a certificate in CPR, and a basic course in trauma first aid. As a teenager, Merrill had been involved with her school's search and rescue club. There, she had learned how to rappel down cliff faces, climb trees, leave trail markers, build fires, and perform basic first aid on lost hikers. Once or twice the police had called them out to assist in the search for a missing person. She had had reason to test her first aid skills when she and one of her friends had stumbled across the hiker for whom they had been searching; he was unconscious and bleeding from a deep wound on his leg. It had been infected. After emptying the contents of her stomach at the sight, Merrill had actually managed to bandage him together, cobble together a litter, and call for backup before throwing up again. It had been the best, and worst, night of her life. As for sparring, well… she had no idea what that entailed.

"I don't have any problems with either, though I do wonder if I have the necessary qualifications… What would be expected of me?"

Lord Elrond's eyes flicked towards Glorfindel, who spoke for the first time since entering. "The training field simply needs someone to care for, distribute, and collect weapons at the end of the day. You might be asked to rake the leaves off the archery ranges and sparring arenas, and possibly fetch gloves, weapons, and the like for those who are practicing."

"As for the House of Healing, you would be expected to assist in whatever ways the healers deem fit. This might mean you help make poultices, wind bandages, collect herbs, and change bedding one day, and clean, suture, and bandage wounds the next," Lord Elrond continued. "You would work at either place at different times of the day. Perhaps you would start in the healing halls in the morning and move on to the training fields in the afternoon. Also, if you would like, both Glorfindel and myself have apprentices who would be willing to train you. To have some knowledge of healing and defense will aid you while you travel to find your home."

"I…" What could she say? "Thank you, Lord Elrond." She paused and glanced over at Glorfindel, who looked bored. "And thank you, err… Glorfindel. I appreciate the offer, but I would like to think it over, if you don't mind. That's not to say that I don't want to work, I do, I am just not sure if learning to fight is necessary for me; I'll only be here for another two months, after all."

The Lord of Rivendell's eyes softened. "Of course. Take all the time you need to consider. In the meantime," he said as he turned and addressed Glorfindel. "Would you send one of your trainees to fetch Merilinith the second bell after noon? I should like to show her to the Houses of Healing, now."

"It will be done."

"Hannon le." Lord Elrond got to his feet as Glorfindel left the room. "The Houses of Healing are the pride of Rivendell. I, myself, spend a great deal of time there, though I have trained several very talented healers who see to the halls in my absence. It is from them you will be learning." Elrond offered Merrill his arm and they set off down the hall companionably. "Our healers are instructed in many methods," he continued, his dark gray eyes tranquil. "But the most potent type of healing is that of the Fëa Athae, which means something like 'Spirit Healing' in the Common tongue."

Whatever it was, Merrill's interest was piqued. "Will they teach that to me, do you think?"

He shook his dark head. "To tell truth, I am uncertain as to whether or not they will be able to do so. It is a challenging ability, and mostly reserved for the last of the High elves, such as the Sindar, of which I am one, or the Noldor, of which Glorfindel is one. Elves of Silvan descent, for example, would find it difficult, if not impossible, to learn to use such an ability effectively."

"Why is that?"

They passed over a white stone bridge spanning the top of one of the waterfalls. Milk white, frothy water spilled beneath their feet and Merrill watched it fall and fall and fall in a never ceasing cascade of wonder. The noise, however, was deafening, and Elrond didn't attempt to speak. Instead, he pointed out over the valley below, indicating the pale jewel of his city amidst the crisp autumn landscape, the bright, silvery quality of the sun's light as it ascended the heavens, and waved his free hand out as if to say, 'This beauty I share with you and, in the sharing, we become friends.'

Merrill released his hand and stretched out her arms as if to hug the sky. _I love it, too,_ she wanted to say. The fine elf lord smiled in understanding, and it was as though the clouds that hung about his face parted to reveal sweet summer sunlight. He quite took her breathe away.

He offered his arm once more, but the ease with which they picked up their conversation was entirely new. Upon crossing the bridge and entering another part of Rivendell's halls, Merrill asked again, "Why do Silvan elves have such a hard time with the spirit healing thing if the rest of you can do it? Is it like some super power that is lost between generations or something? Did the rest of you get bitten by a radioactive spider? Or eat a piece of magic Lembas?"

"Ahh, Merilinith. I live in hope that I will come to understand your extraordinary turns of phrase one day, but it is most definitely _not_ this day. Perhaps I should have asked Radhrion, along. He seems a most able translator."

"He's not my keeper, you know," Merrill said indignantly, but the sparkle in his eyes told her he was not convinced. She sighed the sigh of the defeated. "Yes, he is well-versed in the language of Merrills. But he is probably quite sick at the moment."

When Elrond quirked a brow in query, Merrill explained, "He ate about ten pies this morning in retaliation for an imagined slight."

"Bad luck, Merrill!" A voice from behind them called.

"That would be a great epesse for her, actually, do not you agree, father? _Bad-Luck Merrill_. It is quite fitting!" (2)

She and Elrond turned and the twin grins of Elrohir and Elladan met them. Elrond rubbed his forehead. "My sons," he said so mournfully that Merrill had to chuckle.

"I'm not even going to bother asking you what 'epesse' means. It would probably be bad for my health if I tried," she said drily.

The twins flinched.

One of the pair scuffed the toe of his boot against the floor and glanced up at her through his thick, black lashes. "Both my brother and I apologize for last evening. If we had known your reaction would be so severe, we never would have dreamed of offering you any Miruvor."

"Honest," the other said, his hands tucked resolutely behind his back, and his head hung low. He looked like a thoroughly chastened puppy, and Merrill found she could not quite hold onto her irritation with the pair.

"Fine!" She raised her hand in surrender. "Apology accepted, just stop with the faces – they're killing me."

"What do you mean by that, Merilinith?" the one she thought might be Elladan asked.

The twin she thought might be Elrohir threw his head back dramatically, a hand to his heart as he proclaimed, "Our faces are the work of gods, Merilinith! I do not believe you quite comprehend the divine majesty that –"

"Enough!" Elrond shooed them away. "Off with you! Merrill and I are currently occupied. Go amuse yourselves with Radhrion. If you are to leave for guard duty in two weeks time, there is no better way to spend it than in his company."

The twins did their best to appear wounded. "Adar! How could you speak so to your precious sons?"

"My heart bleeds at your rebuke; my soul keens at-" Elladan began, his voice trembling with false emotion.

Elrond dropped her hand and advanced on the pair. "Out!" He snapped one hand out to his side, his pointer finger indicating the direction in which he expected them to flee.

They fled.

"As I was saying," Elrond said as he directed her down the hallway. "The Silvans are unable to successfully perform spirit healing because… well, their fëar do not possess the same power as those of the Sindar or the High elves." (3)

"Why?"

He smiled. "That seems to be a favorite question of yours."

When Merrill did nothing but wait, he continued, "It is… complicated. I think you said something about it being lost between generations? It is similar to that, but not quite. I will loan you a book on the matter, and, if you wish to discuss it further, I would be more than happy to oblige."

Merrill's heart flipped in her chest; a book! The Lord of Rivendell was lending her a book! If she could have swooned without injuring either her body or her pride, she just might have indulged herself and done so.

Lord Elrond drew up to a pair of white beech doors. "This is the main complex of the House of Healing. It is the wing in which you will spend the majority of your time while you remain here."

Suddenly, Merrill felt nervous. Her stomach clenched. _Hush you,_ she thought to herself sternly. _It isn't like this is a job interview – you're a shoe-in. Nepotism is alive and well in Middle Earth, but this time it is actually to your advantage!_

The room was… not what she had expected. When Elrond had called it 'the House of Healing' she had automatically assumed it would be somewhat similar to hospitals; lots of crap light that gave you headaches, a weird, indescribable smell that wormed its way into your clothes, and lots of stainless steel. She was wrong. The room was so bright she almost had to look away. The walls were white, the bed linens were white, the floor was white, and even the elves busy at work were dressed in white. The ceilings were high and vaulted. Rectangular windows were evenly spaced against the far wall, allowing shafts of pure sunlight to enter the room and bathe the beds in warmth, and it smelled of fresh mint and rosemary.

"A, Nestadis!" Elrond greeted warmly. "I have brought you aid, as you requested. Merilinith, this is Nestadis. Nestadis, Merilinith." (4)

Nestadis had the dark hair and grey-blue eyes that seemed to be synonymous with the elves of Rivendell. She was tall, slender, and dark skinned. Her lips were large, sensuously shaped, and the color of plums. She wiped her hands off on her no-frills apron and placed them firmly upon her hips. "Are you willing to work hard, girl? Because that is what healing work is – hard. You will not find time to daydream or sun gaze whilst you are in my realm. You will work until you drop, and then you will work some more, or I'll know why. Do you understand?"

Merrill did her best not to gulp. "Yes, ma'am."

The dark elf seemed to x-ray Merrill's insides with the intensity of her gaze. "You might just do, after all," she said finally.

"She will also be working at the training fields for part of each day, Nestadis," Elrond reminded the woman firmly.

"Yes, yes, my Lord. Glorfindel's shadow was here but a few moments ago." Nestadis did not appear too happy about this. "He has claimed the afternoons, so she will come here in the mornings, the sixth bell after midnight, to be precise. Now," she began to usher the Lord of Rivendell from the room as though he were a bad smell. "If you do not mind, I would like to begin training my new apprentice."

"Na linda ósë, Nestadis. He na gwein." (5)

"Boe?" Something in Nestadis' tone told Merrill she was being disagreeable. (6)

Elrond's eyes grew stern until she grudgingly inclined her head and twisted her hand over her heart. "Savo harthad, Hîr vuin." (7)

"Only if I must, Nesta," he patted the prickly woman on the arm and raised his hand in farewell. "Good day, Merrill. I hope to see you at supper."

"I hope so, too," she said, eyeing her new teacher doubtfully.

Nestadis closed the door and bustled across the room, calling over her shoulder, "Well? Do I look like a patient elleth?" When Merrill sprung into action, jogging across the room towards her, Nestadis snapped wickedly, "You are slower than an elderly edain!" (8)

 _I could be at home right now,_ she thought gloomily.

"Do hurry it up. We've many patients to see to, and the day isn't growing any younger."

She reminisced longingly on the days of yore (i.e. three days ago) when elves didn't exist, and her life was simple and normal and absolutely ordinary. Merrill sighed resignedly and trotted to keep up.

 **A/N:**

 **Told you I would update, soon! :D**

 **I hope you enjoyed it. As I think I've already said, Elrond is my imaginary BFF, and I love him to bits and pieces.**

 **Also, this is going to be a long 'un, story wise. I'm not planning on breezing through to get to the 'good stuff', but, instead, will take my time, and the more scenic route, to try and make this as rich a reading experience as possible - think Tira Misu, or dark chocolate Truffles. (Having said that, I am now fervently hoping that I am capable of such a herculean task...).**

 **The Fëa Athae is my own creation (the name, at least). Elves did use their Fëa (spirits/souls) to heal, if they had the ability.**

 **Thanks to the magnificent leelee202, ColdOnePaul, KillerCupcakes, FromHellWithLove, Tibblets for your reviews! Your reward is a Pride and Prejudice lake scene, except Mr. Darcy will be replaced with Thranduil... Enjoy :D**

 **And thanks for the follows/favorites.**

 ** _(1) Welcome (F)_**

 ** _(2) Nickname_**

 ** _(3) Souls/Spirits_**

 ** _(4) Hello, Nestadis! (I)_**

 **(5) _Be gentle with her, Nestadis. She is young. (I)_**

 ** _(6) Must I? (Lit. Is it necessary?) (F)_**

 ** _(7) Trust me, my Lord. (Lit. Have faith, my Lord). (F)_**

 ** _(8) Mortal_**


	8. Chapter 8

"So when your hopes on fire

But you know your desire

Don't hold a glass over the flame

Don't let your heart grow cold

I will call you by name

I will share your road

But hold me fast, hold me fast

'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer...

I will learn, I will learn

To love the skies I'm under."

-Mumford and Sons, "Hopeless Wanderer."

* * *

ooOoo

Nestadis was trying to kill her. And so, too, was her new archery instructor, Nordir. They were all out to get her, and it had only been two weeks.

 _I won't survive two weeks more_ , she thought dolefully as she dragged herself wearily up another incline. _By tomorrow, I'll be nothing more than a sweaty, miserable corpse who smells of various weeds and poultices, puke, blood, and pus._

"Hurry it up, probationer!"

That was Nordir, her personal, Elven physical trainer. Upon their introduction, Nordir seemed generally friendly and amiable; he'd spoken a great deal and brimmed with enthusiasm. He had assured her that she would be a natural with a bow. Then he had asked Merrill to perform a series of physical tasks, and she had watched the light fade from his eyes.

He had asked her to run to a tree in the distance and back as fast as she was able. She'd managed to get back within two hours. Nordir's mouth was an open moue of incredulity.

Then he had instructed her to climb. When she had nearly broken her neck, he had hastily ordered her to take up a stave to spar against another trainee.

That had nearly landed her with a broken arm, a broken leg, and a shattered clavicle.

To his credit, Nordir didn't give up. He had pointed to the pool at the base of a waterfall and ordered her to swim to the other side and back as many times as she could without making herself ill. Nordir did not seem surprised when all she could manage were six laps, but Merrill was actually impressed: she had never been able to do anything besides hike without falling over. Swimming, to her, was about floating serenely atop the water, drinking fruity drinks, and, occasionally, doggy paddling to a new sun spot. She and her turtle, Howard, had this in common.

Upon realizing she was hopeless, his manner grew much more brusque and cool. He had taken to calling her 'probationer' after another of his fellows had insinuated that she couldn't possibly be an elf. Nordir had claimed she was on probation to prove herself one of the Eldar.

Merrill pumped her burning legs, desperate to make it up the final hill to rest and water. Her breath was coming in harsh gasps, sweat poured off her, and she felt a little nauseous. But Nordir did not accept complaints.

"This age, probationer!"

Grimly, Merrill gritted her teeth and forced her legs onward. Imagining various ways to torture Nordir helped her to continue on when her legs wobbled beneath her like overcooked noodles and her lungs felt as though they had been doused in lighter fluid. But only just.

 _What does water boarding entail?_ She wondered idly _. Or the whole bamboo shoots under the fingernails, thing? I've heard good things about Iron Maidens, and nine tailed flails…_

With a final burst of speed, Merrill flung herself onto the grass at Nordir's feet, breathing heavily. A red haze flickered in front of her eyes. _That's probably not good_ , she thought giddily.

Something nudged her side. With great effort, Merrill peeled back her eyelids and glared up at Nordir's stupid, handsome elf face. His hair was black, his skin porcelain, and his brown eyes were tilted up at the outer corners in that way only Asian eyes were. If this were earth, Nordir would be Japanese. She might have thought him quite attractive, at one point, but that was before she had suffered his personality. Now he was just another handsome, elf ass.

Nordir nudged her side with his boot again. "Get up."

"No," she said stubbornly, rolling to her other side.

"You're going to cramp," he threatened.

"Don't care."

Suddenly, two arms hooked under her armpits and lifted her to her feet. "You will listen to your instructor, Merilinith, no matter your personal feelings. He has given you the gift of his time and experience, and you must repay it with your diligence and obedience."

Merrill looked up and into the glacial eyes of Glorfindel. She hung in the air before him like a kitten from its mother's mouth. "I was really hoping you'd be someone else," she mumbled.

"A sentiment shared by us all, it would seem," he said pointedly.

Nordir chortled.

She jerked out of his hold and tried not to clutch the stitch in her side when he set her down. This was it. She'd had enough of their condescension and holier-than-thou attitudes. "Yeah, I'm not a great elf. In fact, I suck at it. But I'm also only 22 years old to your - " Merrill stopped and glared daggers at Glorfindel. "What – 12 billion? Plus, I wasn't born in this godforsaken body or on this godforsaken planet! Your customs are not my own, nor are your manners, and I will not be scolded for being who I am! I have done as you have asked, I have tried my best, and I have taken your criticism and punishments quietly, but this is too much."

Glorfindel's demeanor only grew chillier. His lips thinned and parted to reveal sharp canines as he asked, "Are you quite finished, _probationer_?"

Merrill thrust her chin forward and crossed her arms by way of reply.

Glorfindel cupped his arm with his left hand and tapped his lips with his right. Finally, he inquired, "You are only two and twenty summers?"

"I don't know about summers, but I am 22, yes."

For the first time, Glorfindel did something marginally human: he brushed his long, gold hair back from his face and sighed. Merrill could hardly believe it – she hadn't thought him capable of emoting. "Nordir."

"Yes, my Lord?" Nordir stepped up from behind Merrill and bowed low.

"Your training session has ended for the day. Dismiss your student and then report to me."

"As you wish, my Lord." Nordir jerked his chin at Merrill. "Dismissed, probationer."

Merrill would have curtsied mockingly, but she was worried that she wouldn't be able to unbend if she attempted it, so she settled for an ironic salute and stumbled back to her rooms, her muscles shrieking.

Later, when she was alone in the bath Cailiel had kindly drawn for her, Merrill reflected on her behavior. _I could have handled that better_ , she thought as she ran a washcloth along her arms. _But so could they._ She picked up the nailbrush and began to scrape the gunk and dirt from under her fingernails. _That was another thing – the other elves could practically jump into a mud pit, clog dance in manure, and roll about in the dirt and still they would be acceptably clean. Mud and dirt didn't stick to them. So why does it stick to me? Aren't I an elf now, too? Come to think of it, why aren't I as good at running and climbing as they are? Is my body still human?_ Merrill glanced down her front through the suds. The body that met her eyes was definitely longer and more toned. She had had a comfortable pouch of fat along her hips and stomach as a human, but it appeared her unwitting growth spurt had redistributed it to other areas. Her body was beautiful and slender and lean, the kind of body she had gone to the gym thrice weekly to obtain, so why did she suddenly feel like crying?

 _I don't like it when my body does things without telling me,_ she groused internally, lifting her hand from the water to lightly touch the tips of her ears. The fateful day she'd had her first period had left her a sobbing mess – how dare her body surprise her like that? This situation was that times a thousand. Every scar, every imperfection or flaw in her skin, was gone. Excess fat, crazy eyebrows, all of it – it was all smoothed and perfected. Before, she would have jumped for joy at such an occurrence. Now, though, she wanted nothing but to be standing in front of her bathroom mirror at home cursing her Italian heritage as she plucked her thick eyebrows. She wanted to see the crescent moon shaped scar on her elbow from her first fall on her bicycle, and she wanted to hug her stomach and feel some padding, not hard muscle.

Merrill also really wanted some ice cream.

After she had toweled off and dressed in the pale green tunic and beige breeches Cailiel had left out, she sat atop her bed and began the arduous process of detangling her black curls. The elves had gifted her an oil to aid in this task and it was nothing short of miraculous. It eased knots out and allowed the wooden comb she ran through her hair to flow through with hardly any snagging.

When she had finished, she decided it was time to face the music, as it were. Dinner would be set out, shortly, and she would hate to make the Lord of Rivendell wait. He had continued in his kindnesses towards her, no matter how grumpy or ungrateful she sometimes appeared. His sons, having learned of her origins, had taken to teasing her mercilessly, though they would not be at dinner tonight, or for many weeks. The expectation that they would spend months at a time at the borders to guard against outside threats came with their position as high-ranking guards and, though she knew they would not have it any other way, she also knew Elrond fretted every day they were out of his sight.

She opened the doors to the private dining hall and pulled up short, a greeting dying on her lips. Glorfindel sat in the seat beside her own. He raised an eyebrow and she flushed angrily.

"Little bird!" Radhrion waved her over excitedly. "Come and eat! They've pies for afters, which I am sure will perk you up enormously."

Merrill did as he asked and sat gingerly, tucking her arms firmly to her sides to avoid the slightest contact. The golden elf smirked at her discomfort and took a sip from his goblet.

The wait staff entered silently, placing the first course before each of them. Merrill had grown used to their movements, but wished they could have at least tried to be a little louder; the silence that reigned between them all was beginning to grow uncomfortable.

She looked around the table quickly and noted Arwen's absence. _Where the heck is she when I need her?_ Arwen would have a dozen, polite nothings to say to ease the tension, and her mere presence, Merrill suspected, would force the others into some semblance of effort.

"Merilinith," Glorfindel began, startling her so badly a piece of asparagus fell into her soup with an audible _plop_. "I must apologize for my behavior this afternoon. Though your behavior was far from proper, as your elder by a considerable number of years, it is my duty to know better. Goheno nin." Glorfindel lowered his head in acknowledgment, his hand curling over his heart in the customary gesture of respect. He had never before shown her this courtesy.

Irritated, she speared a carrot viciously and popped it into her mouth, counting to fifty before swallowing. "Let me get this straight," she began, placing her fork down and folding her hands in her lap. "You are only apologizing because of my age?"

Radhrion's head fell into his hands; he could sense the coming storm.

Glorfindel, however, was happily oblivious. "Yes. If I had known your age, and your… particular circumstances, allowances would have been made, a different instructor found. I will do my utmost to correct this situation. Nordir, for one, will no longer be your instructor. He is not suited for one of your circumstances and personality. Neither of you would learn anything from training together. In his place, I suggest - "

"No."

He halted, annoyance flickering around the corners of his lips. The golden elf sat up even straighter and set his own silverware down, clearly attempting to control his temper.

It was Elrond's turn to lower his head dejectedly.

" _No_?"

"No," Merrill repeated firmly. "In my world, I am considered an adult. I will stay with Nordir, but I demand that he treats me, if not warmly, than at least politely. There will be no more of this probationer nonsense, and no more hazing. And he needs to realize that he can't push me as hard as he can an elf. I think my body still thinks it's human, so that must be taken into account."

"I believe you will find that, in this world, you are little more than a squalling babe. In consideration of this fact-" Glorfindel's restraint was quickly failing.

Elrond interrupted sharply, "What do you mean by that, Merilinith?"

"I mean that my body is still that of a human. My limits are still mortal. I cannot run as fast, learn as fast, or carry as much weight. My eyesight is most definitely not elvish, and neither are my sleeping patterns or reaction times from what Nestadis tells me. I am not an elf."

"I thought that there was something odd in your reaction to the Miruvor…" Elrond trailed off, his eyes focused on the opposite wall.

Merrill tried to be patient, but she couldn't stop herself from prompting, "And? Why does that matter?"

"Because," his eyes left the wall and found hers. "It was another indication that your transformation was unlike that of the previous individual who came to these halls from your world. Their transformation was rapid and thorough. They had all of the abilities and talents with which my kind is graced. But your change is… reluctant."

Radhrion's voice was low and uncharacteristically thoughtful when he suggested, "Perhaps that is why, Elrond? The change is spotty because of her reluctance to accept her new form. Was not the other individual rather willing to embrace their transformation?"

The Lord of Rivendell beamed. "Yes! That would explain her reaction to the Miruvor and her difficulties on the training field."

Merrill and Glorfindel both scoffed at this; Merrill glared.

Glorfindel flicked his hair back over his shoulder. "That hardly seems likely. Perhaps she is correct and her body simply has not taken to the change. It's not as though we comprehend why two individuals from her world were sent here, nor do we know the rules of such an exchange."

"As much as I hate to agree with the guy, blondie has a point." Glorfindel scowled, but Merrill continued, "Plus, you can't honestly be telling me that the answer is to accept myself – that's just too cliché, and I'll refuse to do so on principle."

Radhrion reached under the table with his toe and tapped her leg to get her attention. "How about we try it, first, before you list your objections to such a scheme, Little bird? I promise that, if it doesn't work, I will listen to them all."

Merrill glowered, but it rolled right off of him. "Fine. What do I have to do? _'I do believe in fairies?'_ That kind of thing?"

"Fairies? What do fairies have to do with anything? Why must every third word you speak be utter nonsense?"

Elrond ignored Glorfindel's outburst, as well as Merrills, with remarkable composure. _Then again,_ Merrill thought, _he raised Elladan and Elrohir._ _Glorfy and I don't have anything on those two, even on a bad day._

"Hmmm… tomorrow, I would like you to meet me at the archery range. Come before going to the House of Healing. It could prove disastrous if we do not sort this out before your journey to Lothlorien. I think you would agree, Merilinith, that it would be infinitely preferable that you should be able to defend yourself, or, at least, run as swiftly as we elves do, should you stumble across trouble."

"Well, when you put it like that…" Merrill looked up at Radhrion, whose lips were tight with concern. When she kicked him under the table, he stirred from his introspections and graced her with a kick of his own.

"And I'll come with you two. I should hate to miss something this entertaining."

When three sets of eyes turned on him, Glorfindel shook his head. "I shan't. My presence will serve as no more than a distraction, I am afraid. And, as you can see, Merrill and I are not the best of friends."

Merrill shrugged in agreement. "He's not wrong, guys."

"Please," the golden elf grimaced. "Do not agree with me. It quite obliterates my appetite." And he swept from the room, his plate still half full.

Merrill stuck her tongue out at his back. _Poncy, pompous, golden, elfy bastard!_

A hunk of cheese landed on her plate. Radhrion added a tart of some kind that smelled of all things good and buttery, and then placed a cluster of vivid purple grapes beside it. "Eat, my dear. Something tells me you are going to need your strength."

Merrill watched with rapt attention as he smeared some sort of cream onto a piece of bread and set it on her plate. "Why do you feed me whenever I'm upset?" She questioned quizzically.

He licked the tips of his fingers clean of the cream, his hands then going to his own bread. Radhrion drizzled long ropes of amber honey atop it intently. Only when he was satisfied, and had taken a bite, did he respond: "Why does anyone do anything? Because that is what makes me feel better."

"I guess that makes sense." Merrill took a bite of the bread and moaned appreciatively. "This is freaking incredible!"

Radhrion smiled knowingly.

* * *

A/N:

Thanks for your reviews Aralinn, leelee202, KillerCupcakes, LadyConfidential, ColdOnePaul, and FromHellWithLove.

You are all seriously my favorite. Thanks so much for your support. If I could bake you all cupcakes, I would. For now, though, I hope this chapter will suffice.


	9. Chapter 9

_**"Long is the road that leads me home**_  
 _ **And longer still when I walk alone**_  
 _ **Bitter is the thought of all that time**_  
 _ **Spent searching for something I'll never find**_

 _ **Take this burden away from me**_  
 _ **And bury it before it buries me."**_

 _ **-The Oh Hellos, 'Cold is the Night'.**_

* * *

ooOoo

The next day dawned gray. Merrill was perversely relieved by this; she hadn't seen so much as a speck of what might be considered inclement weather in her two weeks residence. It hadn't even rained. The sun was always bright, but mild; not enough to burn, but enough to lightly warm the skin. The wind carried with it the cool spray of the waterfall, but did not dare storm against the walls of Imladris. It merely passed through, running invisible fingers through drapery and hair, alike, in the way a playful child might do. And the elves, so in tune with their surroundings, smiled at it indulgently as though it were. It was, for all intents and purposes, late October, though Cailiel had used some strange elvish word, instead, when asked the month.

"Merrill," Cailiel called through the bathroom door.

"Coming!" Merrill pulled her tunic over her shirt and heard something tear. Carefully, she pulled the fabric back over her head and examined it; it was whole. Then she looked down. Her dark green bra strap had torn from the backing, and the underwire was stabbing up in the front. With shaking hands, she removed it from her body and placed it on the counter as though it were a departed friend. But now she was left with something of a dilemma: what did elves of the female persuasion wear about their chests to keep things secure in this world? "Umm, Cailiel? Do elves wear anything around their chests to keep things in place? 'Cuz I need one, if so. My bra just gave out." She stared back down at it and chided herself for grieving. It hadn't even been her favorite bra, and it certainly wasn't comfortable. But it was one of the few things she had left of home, and that made it precious.

"Yes, of course. Wait a moment." Merrill listened to her footsteps recede and jerked her tunic over her head. The footsteps returned by the time she had donned her thick, woolen socks and buttery, leather boots.

Cailiel knocked and gently pushed the door aside. In her hands was a long length of what looked like a thick, ACE bandage. "You wrap this about your breasts and secure it. It is effective, and much more comfortable than donning what the humans call a 'corset'. I assumed you would prefer it, but if you would like me to acquire a corset-"

"No!" Merrill almost snatched the linen out of her hands and murmured, "I mean, no, this will be great. Thanks, Cailiel."

She turned to change behind the privacy curtain before a sudden thought struck; she flew back to the counter and held her bra up to Cailiel's bemused eyes. "Do you think you could fix this? Or, is there someone who knows how to sew who can? It's just, it's one of the last things I have from home…"

Cailiel took it from her hands and brought it close to her eyes, examining the stitches. "And you wear this around your breasts?" She asked, somewhat horrified. The underwire, it seemed, particularly worried her. "Is that," she pointed to the underwire, "supposed to be sticking out like that?"

Merrill shook her head and quickly explained how bras worked. If she had thought to remove the sickened expression from Cailiel's face, she was sorely disappointed. Cailiel held it out before her like it might just be an incendiary of some sort. "I will see what can be done, Merrill. But you are now dreadfully late. Go!"

With some trepidation, Merrill darted forward and kissed her cheek. Waving and smiling, she called as she ran through the door, "Thanks, Cailiel! You're the best!"

She heard her bell-like laughter echoing behind her as she raced down the hall, through the main door, past the stables, and into the archery range. When she saw Elrond and Radhrion awaiting her, she skidded to a stop and bent over, her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

Radhrion chuckled.

"I'll… be… fine," she panted pathetically. When she straightened up, she met Elrond's delighted eyes and said accusingly, "Your house is way too big. Who needs all that space? I only ever see you in your study or the dining hall, so it's not you. And you can't tell me it takes all of this to contain Elrohir and Elladan's mischief – even they aren't that bad."

"You underestimate them, then, Merilinith," Elrond replied, a dimple appearing in his cheek.

Radhrion patted Elrond on the shoulder. "Elrond is particularly fond of taking in strays, Merrill. The space is a byproduct of his generous spirit. Now, stop dawdling and let us get to work."

Merrill scrunched her face up at this, and Radhrion said blandly, "The longer you avoid this, the longer you will be here."

She sighed and held her hands out to her sides. "Have at it, senseis. I am yours to mould."

"So dramatic," Radhrion muttered, then said more loudly, "We have not prepared some rigorous training schedule to encourage you to accept your body, little bird. All we are doing today is playing a few games."

Merrill rubbed her overlong ears and shuddered at the sensation; they were sensitive, which was new. "Games?"

Elrond observed her closely for a moment, then pointed across the field to where archery targets were set up. Merrill could also see an obstacle course, two trees with yellow ribbons tacked at the top, and a distant white mark in the earth that looked suspiciously like a starting line for a race.

"So… is this like, the junior Olympics, or something? I thought I told you I sucked at this stuff."

Radhrion began to walk backwards towards the trees, his eyes dancing. "You are right. There is no way you can beat me. You should forfeit now, and save yourself the embarrassment."

She rolled her eyes, and shouted, "I know what you're doing, and it won't work! Plus, how is my competing against you at all fair? You're the elfiest elf to ever elf! You'll beat the pants off me!"

"Only if you let me win."

Merrill spun to face Elrond to plead her case, but stopped when she noticed how he looked at her. He was suddenly awfully serious and still, and his eyes focused inward. Elrond twisted the silver ring on his finger, and she shivered involuntarily; for a moment, it had felt as though the very air around her had twisted with it.

"I have a suggestion." His voice was somewhere between wakefulness and sleep; an eerie, half-way point Merrill wished she could unhear.

Then his eyes regained their clarity and his mouth twitched.

 _Oh, no,_ Merrill thought uneasily.

"Ernil nín! De nathathol?" (1)

A new voice, low and lyrical, replied from somewhere behind her, "Ben iest lîn, hîr vuin." (2)

Merrill turned slowly and came face to face with yet another elf. He was tall, at least six and a half feet, with silvery blond hair pulled back from his face and two, small braids running along the sides of his scalp. The elf had a wry mouth that put Merrill in mind of Elladan and Elrohir, but his lips were soft and seashell pink. He wore a forest green, long sleeved tunic, dark brown breeches, knee high leather boots, and a bow and quiver settled against his back via a leather strap secured across his chest and shoulder. But it was his eyes that stopped all mental processes in Merrill's brain: they were the color of the desert sky after rain; a preternaturally vibrant, cornflower blue with hints of lavender swirling around his pupils.

The pretty elf bowed gracefully, his hand over his heart, and his eyes alight with interest. "Êl síla erin lû e-govaned 'wîn. Im Legolas estannen. Man i eneth lîn?" (3)

"Errr," Merrill said intelligently.

"Merrill does not speak Sindarin, I am afraid." Elrond's eyes twinkled and Merrill felt the oddest desire to kick him in the shins. "This is Prince Legolas. My prince, this is Merilinith, my ward."

 _Legolas… as in the Legolas. As in the Prince of Mirkwood. As in my childhood crush._

Legolas smiled warmly and Merrill felt her heart melt into her shoes. "A star shines on the hour of our meeting, Merilinith," he said formally.

 _Speak, Merrill! Move your mouth and manipulate the air in your lungs to form words! Converse! Voice! Express! Declare! Anything – just say something!_

"Yes, stars… same." Merrill flushed red and wished herself twelve feet below the earth.

"Forgive her, she is often tongue tied. I, for one, believe this is so because she was repeatedly dropped on her head as a child, though she speaks well enough when angered," Radhrion drawled as he joined them.

"Radhrion!" Merrill spluttered.

"See? A whole word! What an abundance of coherence! You are lucky to bear witness to such eloquence, Prince."

Merrill did kick him in the shins.

Legolas' eyes darted between them. "Surely you jest."

Elrond thankfully intervened. "You will learn that Radhrion rarely does anything else. But that is not why I asked you to come here; I find that Merrill is in need of a partner. Would you be willing to participate in a competition, of sorts?"

 _Oh, no,_ Merrill thought again. _No, no, no, no, no! I'm a disaster when it comes to this stuff! I can't fall flat on my face in front of him!_ She gazed imploringly at her friend who merely rubbed his shin meaningfully. _Traitor._

"I would be happy to do so. What are we to attempt first?"

Radhrion jerked his chin at the distant tree line. "We climb. Though I must warn you, your partner is truly… hapless when it comes to any sort of physical exertion."

"You did not just call me hapless!" She felt Legolas' regard on her face, but she ignored it. Radhrion would pay.

"I did," he said, examining his perfect fingernails.

"I will take great pleasure in watching you eat your words, Ronny," Merrill turned on her heel and marched towards the base of the tree on the left. _You can do this, girl. You can do this. You might not have been born an elf, but you've got the ears and body of one. There's no reason I shouldn't be able to climb this tree. I could even climb trees back in Search and Rescue. Though, admittedly, not well… but that's beside the point!_

She halted before the roots and looked up and up and up. She gulped. _Well, now. This seems like a swell time to discover a latent fear of heights._

"Would you like me to climb in your stead?" Legolas' voice was a lot closer than she had thought; he stood behind her, his lips bent close to her ear.

"Nope!" she squeaked. "I can do this."

"I have no doubt," Legolas agreed cheerfully. "But I will wait at the bottom should you fall."

"Well, gee, thanks for the show of faith."

"Estel an di ai benir amdir," he replied with a smirk that told her he knew full well she hadn't understood him. (4)

Merrill wrapped her hands around the lowest branch and muttered, "Posso dire le cose anche in una lingua diversa. Non sei speciale." (5)

His brow furled and he asked curiously, "What language is that? I do not believe I have ever heard it spoken."

"It isn't fun not knowing, is it?"

Before Legolas could respond, Elrond's voice boomed across the field: "Begin!"

Merrill took a deep breath and forced herself to move. She pulled herself up onto the first branch and swung her leg over it, straddling it with her nose pressed against the bark so she couldn't see the ground - or the attractive blond elf awaiting her at the bottom.

Carefully, she wiped her sweaty hands on her leggings and tried to ignore the harsh beating of her heart. "Next one," Merrill whispered to herself. She gripped the trunk and pulled herself to her feet. The next branch was a little ways up and to the right and she thought she could reach it if she jumped just a little. So she did. Merrill braced her boots against the branch and thrust up. Her hands caught the branch and she was so surprised she nearly let go. _Okay,_ she thought as she settled herself. _Time for the next one._

This branch was further away, but Merrill's eyes focused in on it, and she felt a sudden surge of confidence. _I can do this. I think I can do this._ Merrill internally cringed; she sounded like Thomas the Train. But train or no, she managed that branch, and the next one, and the next one, until the fluttering yellow ribbon was within reach.

With a steadying breath, Merrill got to her feet and reached up. Her hand closed around the ribbon before she heard an unsettling cracking noise. Then she was falling.

Her head crashed into something; the bark tore at the skin of her hands, the branches whipped across her face, and her stomach hovered unhappily in the back of her throat.

Merrill's mind put on its hat and overcoat before waving farewell, but her body was more than happy to step in, kitted out in full superhero regalia – flowing cape, included. Without conscious thought, Merrill kicked off the trunk and flipped, grasping the nearest branch. It held. She heaved herself up and then lay there, trembling and panting and clinging.

"Merrill! Little bird! Are you injured? Are you hurt? Move out of the way!" Radhrion's voice grew closer and closer; panic and annoyance were the predominant emotions.

Radhrion clambered up onto her branch and cupped her face in his hands. "Tell me: what is your name?" He said, enunciating each word.

"Merrill Dae Mabray," she answered muzzily.

"Hmmm…" Radhrion smiled sheepishly. "Perhaps I should have asked you a question whose answer I knew."

Merrill scrambled up from her position on the branch and clutched him to her, her fingers digging painfully into his sides. She took a few, deliberate breaths and concentrated on her family. "Dae was a part of my grandfather's name. My mom named me for him. Park Dae Young. My mom kept my father's last name: Mabray, so he's represented there, I guess. And Merrill was what my grandmother was considering naming my mom before she decided on Laura, so there she is."

Radhrion hummed. "You are full of surprises, Merrill Mabray."

"What can I say? Someone has to keep you on your toes, Ronny."

"Are you well, Merilinith? Is she well, Radhrion?" Legolas' voice drifted up, and Merrill peered over Radhrion's shoulder to see that he had climbed part of the way up. His eyes were uncertain, his body tense, and his expression strangely wild.

Radhrion noticeably bristled before replying, "Yes, yes. She is perfectly well. We'll be down in a moment."

"Do you require assistance? She hit her head quite hard."

Merrill wondered if he was young for his kind, for he didn't seem to understand social cues well. She scratched at her ears, which tingled; was she allergic to tree sap or something?

"No – everything is under control." Radhrion patted her on the back and whispered into her ear, "It would appear you have made a conquest, my dear. And a prince, too."

Merrill groaned; she wasn't coherent enough, for his teasing, and she told him so.

"Of course, my dear. Let us get you down." Radhrion extricated himself from her embrace and leapt lightly onto the branch below. He held his arms out to her. "Slide down into my arms, Merrill, and I will carry you."

Merrill clenched the branch hard enough that she felt the grooves of the bark cut into the pads of her fingers. She swung around until she sat with both legs facing him. "You had better catch me," she warned. Then she closed her eyes and fell. Radhrion's strong arms wrapped around her instantly. He shifted her onto his back, settling her arms about his neck, and then proceeded to jump from branch to branch until he reached the ground.

"That 'elfy elfness' you mentioned earlier has some perks, doesn't it?"

"Oh, shut up and get me to Nestadis." Her head was spinning, and the tingling in her ears had only gotten worse. The world flipped upside down and sounds faded in and out like a badly tuned radio. Colors muted and distorted and stretched. She felt like she was in an Escher painting on speed. "I think I might have a concussion, Radhrion," she mumbled.

She could feel the vibrations of his speech beneath her chest, but she couldn't hear him. "I… can't hear anything."

Elrond approached, his lips moving, but still – silence. She shook her head at him mutely.

Cool hands touched her cheeks and she allowed her head to be turned. "Do you feel nauseous or tired?"

"Yeah, a bit. I think I hit my head."

Radhrion began to move, and Legolas jogged beside him. "We are taking you to the Houses of Healing, I believe. You must stay awake, just in case this is a concussion. Lord Elrond was telling me you are studying with one of his chief healers. That is an admirable undertaking. Do you enjoy it?"

Merrill puked on his boots by way of reply.

After that, Legolas maintained the conversation on his own. When they reached the Houses of Healing, Nestadis and Elrond began to chant a healing spell over her and then, blessedly, allowed her to sleep.

Before her eyes closed, she saw Legolas sitting on the next bed, Elrond bent over him, and then she knew no more.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **GUYS - Nightingale has officially been out for 1 month! *blows kazoo energetically* And I won Nanowrimo two days ago! So this is my present to myself (and a way to avoid studying for yet another exam).**

 **LEGS HAS LANDED! So, my take for him is that he's a bit sheltered (as he seems in the books) and awkward. Also, one of the reasons the Elves were leaving ME is because they were too set in their ways - they couldn't adapt like humans - so he's gonna have some of that going on, too. He has very definite ideas as to how the world is supposed to work, and when it surprises him by doing the opposite of what he expects, it throws him for a bit of a loop. Don't worry - Merrill will give him enough experience in that regard that he'll soon overcome it. :) BUT - "The course of true love never did run smooth," as Shakespeare said, so expect bumps ahead.  
**

 **THANK YOU FOR YOUR REVIEWS! They mean the world and definitely keep my butt glued to my chair when writing feels more like self-imposed torture.  
**

 **And KillerCupcakes, especially - I'm tempted to print out your latest review! I couldn't stop smiling after reading it. Heffalumph, indeed. You'll see more of Glorfy, in future, I promise.**

 _ **(1) My prince! Would you please help her? (F)**_

 _ **(2) As you wish, my Lord. (F)**_

 _ **(3) A star shines on the hour of our meeting. I am called Legolas. What is your name? (F)**_

 _ **(4)**_ _ **Faith is for those who lack hope.**_

 _ **(5) I can say things in a different language, too. You aren't special. (Itali**_ ** _an)_**


	10. Chapter 10

**"When I too long have looked upon your face,**  
 **Wherein for me a brightness unobscured**  
 **Save by the mists of brightness has its place,**  
 **And terrible beauty not to be endured,**  
 **I turn away reluctant from your light,**  
 **And stand irresolute, a mind undone,**  
 **A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight**  
 **From having looked too long upon the sun.**  
 **Then is my daily life a narrow room**  
 **In which a little while, uncertainly,**  
 **Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,**  
 **Among familiar things grown strange to me**  
 **Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,**  
 **Till I become accustomed to the dark."**

 **\- Edna St. Vincent Millay, 'Sonnet 07'.**

* * *

ooOoo

"…wasn't a concussion. We both know that." Merrill stirred; that was Radhrion's voice, and it was perturbed. A pause, and then: "Is this what I think it is?"

Bottles clinked together, a muffled shuffling, and then Nestadis replied sourly, "Your belief in my omnipotence is truly flattering, but I still do not know. Elrond might, but he is even more close-lipped than usual. Ask him, I'm busy enough as is without my apprentice."

She heard a mattress rustle and then Radhrion spoke again: "I would if I could, but he is busy with all of these arrivals and his patient. Did you see the Dwarves, yet? Quite remarkable specimens, and intent on asking for Lord Elrond's counsel. I overheard them at luncheon saying something about threats from a man claiming to be of Mordor, and a missing dwarf lord in Moria."

"Aye, I saw them. But I was more interested in Glorfindel's charge; the Halfling. Lord Elrond had all of us working on him through the night. Poor dear was stabbed with a Morgul blade. It took every ounce of Elrond's power, and our own, to stave off its effects, but it can never be fully healed, and he will suffer from it the rest of his life."

"It's remarkable he survived, at all," Radhrion said quietly. "And it was incredibly fortuitous that it was Glorfindel who discovered them, and that Aragorn was able to lay hands on Athelas to slow the poison. Without those two, he would not have made it to Rivendell for Lord Elrond to heal."

The soft swish and thump made Merrill think that Nestadis was folding blankets and dropping them into her basket to put away, later. _Probably saving them for me to put away once I get up_ , Merrill thought.

"Glorfindel's Fëa Athae, though untrained, is more powerful even than Elrond's own. I have asked him to accept training in the art of healing for decades, but he refuses. He claims one cannot be a warrior and a healer."

"A belief shared by many; the hands that shed blood in violence would taint any healing they attempted. I can understand this."

A blanket snapped. "It is an old-fashioned thought."

"You will find that our kin cherish many of those," Radhrion said drily.

"I suppose you speak of Arwen and Estel. But we shall not discuss it – you know my feelings on the matter differ from your own."

"Oh, come now, Nesta. If we didn't speak of topics upon which we disagreed, we'd never have a breath of conversation between us. Just think how dull that would be."

"You've your girl for that, Radhrion. You do not need me."

"'My girl', as you have dubbed her, sleeps at present. She can hardly entertain me in her state."

"She adores you, you know," Nesta said in a tone so tender Merrill almost broke cover and sat up to check that it was, indeed, she who had spoken.

A mattress creaked. "I am rather fond of her, myself."

"Gardhir manadh said." (1)

"I thought we were speaking in Common to avoid being overheard by your patients?"

"We were, but your little bird is awake."

Merrill grimaced but opened her eyes. "You're worse than my mother."

Nestadis and Radhrion leaned over her bed. Both appeared relieved. Nestadis even smiled, though it appeared so panicked to find itself on her face that it went lopsided in horror.

"I'm worse than everyone's mother, apprentice." Nestadis stepped away from the bed and out of her sight.

"And how is the little eavesdropper this afternoon?" Radhrion pulled her blanket up more firmly under her chin and tucked her hands beneath it.

"I hardly heard a thing, and I am much better. How long have I been out?"

Nestadis returned carrying a green bottle and a spoon. She shook a glop of the stuff onto the spoon and it made a horrendous squelching noise. With little patience, she prodded Merrill's lips. "Three days. Now open."

"Do I have t-" Merrill was cut off as the spoon was shoved past her teeth. Nestadis briskly pinched her nose shut until she was forced to swallow the substance down.

Merrill glared balefully at her teacher, but the contrary elf just cackled. "The kitten has claws," she teased. "You may return to your chambers as soon as you are dressed. I believe you will find a few people waiting most eagerly for you." And with that, she swept away to spread her particular brand of terror to her other patients.

Radhrion waited with his back turned as Merrill dressed beneath her blankets. Someone had made her a new tunic and breeches. As she shook out the tunic, her green bra fell out. It was as good as new. With a silly grin, Merrill dressed quickly and allowed Radhrion to escort her back to her chambers. He chatted her ear off about the Dwarves that had arrived until a sudden, nasty thought struck her and she interrupted him.

"Wait – is one of the Dwarves named 'Gimli'?"

This shocked him. He dropped her arm and turned to face her fully, his expression one of utter bafflement. "By Aulë's hammer! How could you possibly know that?"

 _Shit. Of course. Of course I landed in Fellowship of the Ring; arguably the most dangerous time in Middle Earth's history. And I'm here. That means Frodo's here… and that means the ring is here. And that means…_

"When is Elrond holding the council?" Merrill asked, ignoring his question entirely.

 _"When is Elrond holding the council?!"_ Radhrion spluttered. "How in Elbereth's name do you know of that? Merrill, what is going on?"

Merrill leaned against the bridge's railing and watched the water fall with a profound sense of exhaustion and detachment. "It's another weird other world thing. I probably shouldn't say any more than that, so please don't ask."

Radhrion's brows climbed even further into his hairline, but he refrained from asking any more. He picked her arm back up and tugged her along, instead. "It is being held tomorrow morning," he commented. "I have been invited to attend… as have you, should you feel well enough."

" _Excuse me_?"

"Elrond believes your arrival might have something to do with whatever is going on with the Halfling and the Dwarves. He has not explained what, exactly, this council is about, but it is definitely not a social call. A grim bunch of people have been arriving since you lost consciousness. Even a man of Gondor has come, though we have not spoken; he seems to dislike elves and keeps to himself. But his eyes are frightened. All of their eyes are frightened."

Merrill chewed her lip and said nothing. There was no way she was attending the Council of Elrond. The ring would be there, for one thing, and she had no desire to feel its effects, at all. And… well, she supposed she was feeling somewhat contrary. If Elrond believed some unknown entity/entities had yanked her out of her world to join the ring quest, she would do the exact opposite of what they wished and refuse to attend.

Radhrion left her at her room with a promise to collect her for the evening meal, and Merrill barely managed to wait until he'd gone before sinking to her floor and staring numbly at her hands.

One question echoed in her mind past the fear and the uncertainty brewing in the background: _Why in the hell am I here?_

* * *

 ** _A/N:_**

 ** _This is a short (VERY short) chapter just to tide you over until I'm through with my finals._**

 ** _So, any thoughts? It wasn't a concussion, eh? Then what was it? Hmmm... :)_**

 ** _ColdOnePaul, Leelee202, LadyConfidential, KillerCupcakes, XxNimith531xX, AmberRose, FromHellWithLove, & RyuHime109 - _****_Thanks, again, for your excellent reviews!_**

 ** _Lady Confidential, in particular - you picked up on exactly why I'm portraying Legs the way I am. :D_**

 ** _Best wishes (and 'see' you all here this upcoming Friday or Saturday!) ~_**

 ** _(1) You share an uncommon fate._**


	11. Chapter 11

**"I am done, I am done,**  
 **I don't care how you feel**  
 **I am done, I am done for now**  
 **And I see, I see with every glance I steal**  
 **I am done, I am done for now**

 **You say you're used to playin' with fire**  
 **You say your heart is on your sleeve**  
 **You say you're sometimes sentimental**  
 **Well, that ain't showin' through to me."**

 **\- Vance Joy, 'Playing with Fire'.**

* * *

ooOoo

Cailiel had insisted that she wear her red dress to the feast that night. Dignitaries from the kingdoms of Men, Dwarves, and Elves had gathered together to discuss some great peril (i.e. the ring), and to dress otherwise would, apparently, be extraordinarily disrespectful. Not only to them, but to Lord Elrond, who had announced her as his ward to all and sundry.

If it had only been for the dignitaries and their feelings, Merrill would have gone in her breeches, but she owed Lord Elrond a lot, and if this small sacrifice on her part pleased him, then she would grin and bear it and wear the damn dress. She would not, however, be parted from her boots. The slippers Cailiel had thrust upon her were flimsy, impractical, and uncomfortable, and there was only so much Merrill was willing to put up with for one evening.

The disappointed exhalation Cailiel issued was pointedly ignored, and Merrill was speedily dispatched to an evening of meaningless small talk and meatless canapes.

She began down the hallway, the flickering torchlight limning her face in a soft, orange glow. Just as she turned right, Legolas melted out of an alcove and greeted her formally.

"My heart is glad to see you well, Merilinith." He was resplendent in a form fitting silk tunic of celadon green that illuminated his eyes. It was embroidered at the cuffs, the throat, and the hem with golden thread that glittered when he moved, and his trousers were a deep brown. Polished, brown boots adorned his feet, and he'd pulled his hair back from his face in a low ponytail, his customary braids conspicuously absent.

Merrill stomped down hard on the butterflies that exploded in her stomach and determined she should be rational. He was, after all, nothing like his character in the movies, from what she had seen, and that was whom she had fantasized about as a teenager – not him. "Thanks… So, do you often skulk about in random hallways? Or is this new?"

He opened his mouth to reply, stopped, then closed it and shook his head perplexedly. "I think you mean to jest, but I am not quite sure when it comes to you. In any case," he continued, rumpling his hair with one, careless hand. "I was waiting in the hopes that you would do me the honor of escorting you to the feast. Radhrion kindly allowed me to take his place."

That didn't sit particularly well with her; she wasn't anyone's to display like some doll. "I do believe I can manage to find my way to the dining hall without assistance, no matter what Radhrion says," she remarked coolly.

His face fell into something akin to confusion and she realized he had never before had such an offer declined.

Merrill sighed and relented. It wasn't his fault that she did not fit into this chivalric, romantic age. She was the odd one in this situation, not him. "…But you could walk with me, if you'd like. I just don't like the idea of being escorted or traded-off. It's so antiquated and paternalistic. I put up with it from Radhrion and Lord Elrond because, well, they've sort of adopted me. But it would be weird to let a stranger treat me like that, you know?"

"I do believe you are speaking another language, again. Would you consider explaining what it is you mean?" He offered her his arm, and she shook her head gently and began to walk. Legolas padded alongside her silently.

"I guess I mean that all this polite arm holding and escorting makes me feel like a possession more than a person. Does that make sense? I feel like a doll, and I don't like it."

Legolas gazed at the floor as he walked, giving Merrill a chance to steal another look at him. He was handsome; that didn't need repeating. All elves were exemplars of beauty. But there was an innocence about him, a purity, that she found endearing and frustrating, all at once. He was what her mother would have called a 'new soul'. There wasn't a smudge of taint on him; no darkness sat behind his eyes, no sorrow dwelled within his voice. He was, in some ways, quite child-like.

"You lack consistency," he said finally.

Merrill's hackles went up, but she managed a polite, "Excuse me?"

Legolas linked his hands behind his back. "You refuse my kindness because of your dislike of being treated as a possession, but allow such treatment from others… how is that not inconsistent?"

"It… is, a bit, I grant you," Merrill grudgingly agreed. "But it's also about choice. I choose who is allowed such familiarity – I choose for whom I will bend my rules. Yes, I would prefer it, in some ways, if the others wouldn't constantly treat me like glass, but… I guess I kind of like it, too. It makes me feel loved, coming from them. So, you're right. It is a contradiction. But, '…I am large - I contain multitudes.'" (1)

Legolas nodded slowly. "That almost makes sense."

"That's a bad sign," Merrill said with a straight face. "You don't want to learn the language of Merrills. Ask Radhrion, it has absolutely ruined him for all polite society. He laments daily."

They drew up to the door. The booming voices and laughter behind it made Merrill cringe; she hadn't been in company with numbers exceeding five or six others since before her arrival in Middle Earth. And this group sounded particularly boisterous, and more than half gone in their cups.

Merrill risked a look at Legolas; his face glowed with anticipation and good feeling. He really was unspoiled by the evils of the world. A wave of sadness washed over her; he would not be so for very much longer. The ring quest would give Legolas many things: a best friend in the shape of a dwarf, and experiences interacting with humans and his own kin, among them. But so, too, would it give him grief, and a grim knowledge of death and the still elusive concept of mortality – a harsh lesson for an immortal.

"Shall we?" she asked, elbowing his side. A jolt ran up her arm and Legolas jumped, turning his eyes on her and rubbing his side warily.

"Don't look at me," she defended, holding her hands before her in a show of innocence. "Static electricity happens to the best of us."

He edged past her and pushed the door open, determinedly avoiding contact. But she wasn't given long to dwell on this; the noise crashed over them, effectively ending their awkward stare-off. Legolas pointed across the teeming room to a table set just the slightest bit higher than the others; Elladan and Elrohir had returned, and beside them were four children with mops of curly hair. Elrond served the dark-haired child, himself, which Merrill thought was odd, until troubled blue eyes met her own. _Frodo… that's Frodo. Which means_ … she stood up on her toes to make out three, sandy colored heads. Two of the hobbits were huddled together, laughing uproariously at some joke the other had said. The third hobbit was chubby, and steadily adding more and more food to Frodo's plate: _Sam._

"Have you never seen a Halfling before?" Legolas pitched his voice so she might hear over the din.

 _This was too surreal_. "Not real ones."

He tilted his head to the side.

Merrill had to remind herself that he was, in fact, a strong, Elven warrior and not a puppy she could adopt and take home for cuddles and tummy rubs. "No matter how adorable you may, or may not, appear right now, my answer is the same."

An all too male smile lit across his face, and his eyes repeatedly flickered to her own before skittering away, the traces of pleasure clear in his glittering eyes and the slightest blush staining his cheeks.

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Yes, you're adorable! I admit it. So lose the smug smile and let's go eat."

"As you wish, my lady." His teeth flashed white against the tan of his skin.

 _He has a really nice smile_ , she thought reluctantly. _Really nice._

As they wound their way through the room, several elves in the uniform she had seen Legolas in the first day they'd met stopped him and spoke, appraising her from the corners of their eyes. _Perhaps they don't wish their princeling to consort with the common rabble._ Whatever the case, Legolas eagerly introduced them to her, translating their replies. They didn't speak Common, and she didn't speak Sindarin, a fact they found suspect, if their expressions were anything to go by.

When they had finally made it to the high table, they were seated beside a dark haired man in a tunic of black with silver embroidery, and a Dwarf with a violent red beard, whose own clothing, though well made, was notably less frilly and favored comfort and utility over style. Beside him sat Radhrion, and the two appeared deep in conversation.

Legolas held her chair out for her politely before a conflicted look stole across his face and he jerked his hands back as though he'd been burnt. He shifted uncertainly from foot to foot.

 _I think I might have broken him_ , Merrill thought a little guiltily.

"Thank you, Prince Legolas."

His face went hard at that, and he sat without another word.

 _Well, this evening is going to be loads of fun, I can just tell - sat beside a moody elf princeling and an over-loud Dwarf with the terrible twins just waiting in the wings to make it all a thousand times worse._

"Legolas!" the man in black and silver cried joyously. He stood as Legolas did and they embraced affectionately. "Na vedui! Gwannas lû and, mellon nin." (2)

Legolas beamed, parting from the man's embrace only to twist his hand over his heart. The man did the same. "Mae g'ovannen, Estel. Lend and?" (3)

The man sat and rubbed his face tiredly. "Dae and. Tôl trastad, Legolas. I gala gwath." (4)

"Iston, a nidhib di ndaged," Legolas' face darkened for a fraction of a second, before he slapped the man on the back companionably and said, "Tolo, mado, a hogo e-mereth." (5)

The man gripped his shoulders, squeezing briefly. Then his sharp gray eyes landed on Merrill. They put her in mind of wolves on the Discovery channel; lean and keen with hunger, but watchful and wary with wisdom. "You must be Merrill. I have heard many good things about you."

Merrill, a piece of cheese halfway to her mouth, hastily set it aside and brushed her fingers off on her napkin, offering the man her hand. "I guess you weren't talking to Ronny, then. It's nice to meet you…?" she trailed off expectantly.

"Forgive me, my name is Estel, but you may call me Strider, if you would like." He accepted her hand and raised it to his lips.

Merrill choked on her cheese and yanked her hand away. For his part, Strider did not appear to take any offense. Instead, he kindly offered her his napkin and moved her water closer to her hand. Legolas stared at her as though she had admitted aloud to playing Badminton with Orcs in her spare time.

 _Aragorn. I am talking with the future king of Gondor, the heir of Elendil. The last of the line of kings. The love of Arwen._ Merrill searched the room for a moment and found her seated three seats down, her eyes dancing as she watched them converse.

"Who is Ronny?" Aragorn inquired, politely changing the subject.

"Oh, well, he's sat just there." She waved in the elf's general direction and babbled, "He is always hard on me – says it's for my own good, or some nonsense."

A voice whose tone was well versed in the ironic slid into the conversation. "That's because it is, little bird. And you've no notion what a sacrifice it is, on my part. But I force myself so you will be strong." Radhrion leaned past his Dwarven dinner companion and pointedly ignored Merrill's rolling eyes and soft, "Sure you do."

"Radhrion, by the by. An old friend of Elrond. Splendid to meet you, at last."

"And I you, Radhrion. Arwen has told me of you, as well," Aragorn's voice was bordering on reverential and Merrill sighed; this was going to go straight to Radhrion's head, and there would be absolutely no living with him.

She picked up her dinner roll and began to smother it in the most decadent and creamy butter she had ever before seen. Let them talk; Merrill would put her time to better use.

"She is much kinder than I deserve, I am sure," Radhrion replied graciously. "I take it you are here for the Council?"

Aragorn set his fork down and said haltingly, "I am… but I have been asked not to say more until tomorrow. Lord Elrond is adamant."

Radhrion's fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet, inching it back and forth across the table. A frown creased his brow. "Yes, it would seem he has said much the same to the others. Oh!" He straightened in his chair and smacked his forehead lightly. "But where are my manners? This is Gimli, son of Gloin, of Erebor. He comes with his father bearing ill tidings, though he won't say more, stubborn lad."

The red-bearded Dwarf bowed in his seat to Aragorn, but passed over Legolas and Merrill. "Stone above, stone below, Ranger. I have not met one of your kind in many long years."

"Nor I yours, Master Dwarf. How fares Erebor and the King Under the Mountain?"

Gimli gazed into his goblet for a moment before reaching into his pocket to reveal a silver flask. He dumped half of its' contents into it, stopped, considered, shrugged, and dumped the rest in. The dwarf took a sip. "Ahhhhhh," he groaned appreciatively. "That's better. Elf drink is weak and tastes worse than horse piss." Legolas's eyebrows slanted sharply and several elves around the table glared, but Gimli continued, "Give me Dwarven whiskey, any day. Now, what was it you were asking?" Aragorn opened his mouth to remind him, but Gimli roared over him. "Ah, yes. Erebor. Well, King Dain yet lives, and his rule is just. Erebor flourishes, Mithril flows like water, and her halls ring with the sounds of many hammers."

Aragorn smiled. "And glad am I to hear it. But please, allow me to introduce my companions. This is Prince Legolas, of the Greenwood, and this is Merrill, ward of Lord Elrond."

Merrill bowed her head in acknowledgment, but Legolas angled his body away from the conversation, entirely, meaning that he faced her full on, his knees brushing against the side of her thigh. Merrill's muscles tightened, and she tried to ease away, but an unknown elf on her left peered down at her as though she were some manner of rodent when she accidentally bumped into him. As there was nothing for it, Merrill edged back over. _It's not like he cares_ , she told herself. _I could probably strip naked and cover myself in honey, and he'd just go on about the dangers of summer colds and offer me his coat. Not that I would want him to respond any differently,_ she hurriedly reassured herself _._ She let her leg relax. He shivered, but did not move away.

"Aye, I know of the prince of the Mirkwood," Gimli said darkly. "His father imprisoned my own many years ago without cause, and then extorted our king for gems. I see the Mithril doesn't fall far from the vein."

Legolas scowled but did not deign to reply, which was somehow so much worse.

Gimli's already ruddy face grew even redder, and Merrill leapt into the fray and blurted the first thing that came to mind: "If you wouldn't mind, would you tell me about Erebor? I have heard many stories of its magnificence, but never from one who has lived there." She cringed and hoped she hadn't laid it on too thick.

The dwarf eyed her, mistrust wrinkling his brow. "And why should an Elf maid wish to hear about Erebor? Don't you lot just prance around in the woods writing poems to daisies?"

Merrill threw back her head and laughed heartily at this, startling the Dwarf even further. "Me? Write poetry? No, no, no, no, no. I'm afraid any verse of mine would make the reader's eyes bleed. I'm not exactly great with the pen – err, quill. I know a few by others, but that's as far as I go, and then I'm tapped."

Radhrion and Aragorn both encouraged her to give an example, and even Gimli professed some, little interest. So she obliged:

 ** _"Awake! Awake! for the earliest gleam_**

 ** _Of golden sunlight shines_**

 ** _On the rippling waves, that brightly flow_**

 ** _Beneath the flowering vines._**

 ** _Awake! Awake! for the low, sweet chant_**

 ** _Of the wild-birds' morning hymn_**

 ** _Comes floating by on the fragrant air,_**

 ** _Through the forest cool and dim;_**

 ** _Then spread each wing,_**

 ** _And work, and sing,_**

 ** _Through the long, bright sunny hours;_**

 ** _O'er the pleasant earth_**

 ** _We journey forth,_**

 ** _For a day among the flowers."_** (6)

Aragorn and Radhrion clapped when she finished. She inclined her head in a performer's bow, and a black curl sprung loose from her braid and flopped across her nose. Legolas watched its movement intently. He even smiled softly, in a way that was far too familiar for her liking, when it broke free of her fingers. The pin she held fell and she swooped down to retrieve it, only to find his hand there, first. Legolas offered it to her courteously, his smile now beyond all bounds of common decency. _How in the hell does he go from petulant, naïve, ten year old to suave, entirely too handsome, heartthrob in the span of five minutes?_ Merrill snatched it out of his hand and tossed it on the table, tucking her curl behind her ear with an unsteady hand.

Gimli wasn't best pleased. "See? Poems about flowers," he accused.

Merrill gladly launched herself back into the conversation. "Withhold judgment for just a moment longer, Master Dwarf. This next one is for your ears alone." She stood and stepped carefully over Legolas' legs before squatting beside Gimli's chair and whispering the song, ' _Do Virgins Taste Better Than Those Who Are Not_?' into his ear. By the final stanza, Gimli was howling with laughter. He clapped her hard on the back, nearly driving her face into the table with his enthusiasm.

"THAT is poetry!" he exclaimed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Are you sure you're an Elf, lassie? I never thought to hear such a song from the lips of one so fair."

"Flatterer." Merrill winked at him, and the dwarf actually blushed. "But wait until later – I know _so_ many more."

"If you are quite done scandalizing our esteemed guests, little bird, it is time to move to the Hall of Fire." Radhrion stood and so, too, did the others.

"You're not scandalized, right, Gimli?" Merrill asked playfully as she got to her feet.

The dwarf chuckled, "It'll take more than that to scandalize me, lassie, but you're more than welcome to keep trying."

"So have I earned a tale of Erebor, yet?"

Gimli glanced around conspiratorially, and said in a low voice, "You tell me another of those songs of yours, and I'll tell you about Erebor."

She stuck out her hand and he looked thrilled when she shook his. "You got yourself a deal."

And with that, Gimli excused himself and went to rejoin his kin.

Aragorn, too, left them, his eyes scanning the hall even as he bid them good evening. Merrill observed the moment he found Arwen; his entire face grew tranquil, and the years and worry fell from his shoulders like a discarded cloak.

She stood off to the side of the door, her bright eyes glittering when he drew near. For a moment, they stood in silence, content just to breathe the same air, inhabit the same space, then Arwen lightly traced the back of his hand with her fingertips. Her eyes beckoned as she turned to go, but Aragorn stood utterly still.

A small, blue cloth fluttered to the floor behind her, and he stooped and tucked it carefully into his tunic, patting it as though to reassure himself it was real, before following her out.

Merrill sighed; their love was impossible, in so many definitions of the word, but that was its beauty, she realized. It overcame; it stepped easily over obstacles that had succeeded in tripping others.

The room was swiftly emptying, but Radhrion and Legolas still stood beside her. The former held up the wall, his eyes missing nothing; he would regale her later with tales of the follies of the other guests, she knew. His observations were witty and tended towards the sarcastic; they never failed to make her laugh. The latter stood remarkably close, though he stared off over her head at something she couldn't see. A flush stained the tops of his cheekbones and she could see how tightly his teeth clenched.

Curious, Merrill followed his gaze, craning around a few of the taller Elves, and found the twins. They looked as innocent and sweet as kittens in a basket - especially kittens who had just finished shredding the curtains and peeing in your shoes.

They waved merrily at her. One of them indicated Legolas and mocked swooning into his brother's arms before regaining his feet and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. The other made kissy faces while his brother batted his eyelashes coquettishly, hiding what was meant to be a feminine giggle behind his large hand.

Merrill felt Legolas tense beside her.

 _So that was how they wanted to play it, eh?_ She lifted one finger to her throat and then jerked it across meaningfully. _If you make this evening more uncomfortable for me, so help me I will tell Arwen who keeps switching her hair oils with purple dye!_ Merrill tried to convey promises of death with her eyes, but that only seemed to encourage them; they blew her kisses before strolling out, hands tucked in their breeches pockets.

She peered at Legolas from the corner of her eyes; he was looking anywhere but at her, the faintest flush on his tanned skin.

 _Those twins! One of these days… to the moon, Alice!_

A distraction was required. Gimli was brought to Merrill's mind, and his interactions (or lack thereof) with Legolas seemed fodder, enough, for the distraction made necessary by the twins' behavior.

"Hey, Radhrion?"

"Yes, little bird?" He asked, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"What's with Dwarves and Elves? Why do they hate each other?"

Radhrion shrugged expansively. "The answer to that question is lengthy and repetitive and petty. Suffice it to say, that they hate for much the same reasons all races do – misunderstandings, usually willful, and a distinct disinterest in celebrating differences. They would all rather cling to past injuries (real or imagined) and build up their fortresses of dislike and disgust than accept each other and forgive."

"My own experiences have taught me otherwise, Radhrion. And it seems you have forgotten King Thingol's fate in his dealings with them." A muscle in Legolas' jaw ticked. "Dwarves are a grasping, greedy, base lot. They are quick to anger, steeped in suspicion, secretive, cold, and crude," he glanced at Merrill, a frown camping awkwardly on his lips. "Elves tend not to be able to countenance their company for overlong, though it would appear there are exceptions to every rule."

Merrill pinched the bridge of her nose. _So much for not being a petulant ten year old,_ she thought a little bitterly _._ "Yes, yes. I'm a bad elf. You'd think one of you people would come up with a new way to insult me. Feel free to continue to imply that I am defective because I dared to make conversation with a dwarf; really, I don't mind. Besides, you have no idea how much you are going to cringe when you look back on this conversation. I would pay good money to be a fly on _that_ wall."

"Will you _ever_ make sense?" he growled, glaring down into her upturned face.

She lifted her chin, her eyes flashing dangerously, and wished he wasn't so damn tall. "Will you?"

Legolas made a noise in his throat like the love-child of an earthquake and a chainsaw, threw up his hands, and brushed past her without another word.

"How unfortunate," Radhrion said as he stretched lazily. "It would appear that a certain prince dislikes our Dwarven friends."

Merrill blew a loose curl out of her face and replied, "I wouldn't worry about it. These things have a way of sorting themselves out, you know."

Radhrion pursed his lips. "Another gem gleaned from your world, I take it?"

"Yup."

"Lovely," he muttered, raking his hand through his dark, brown hair. "This evening has turned out to be a veritable spider's web of secrets. I cannot wait until tomorrow. My curiosity grows with each moment."

Merrill, however, could not bring herself to agree. _I'll save tomorrow's troubles for tomorrow,_ she determined. _Besides, tonight has more than enough of its' own._

A pair of impossibly blue eyes loomed in her mind and she mentally swatted at them.

 _No. Just – no._

* * *

 ** _A/N:_**

 ** _(1) Walt Whitman._**

 ** _(2) At last! It has been too long, my friend. (I)_**

 ** _(3) Well met, Estel. Long journey? (I)_**

 ** _(4) Very long. Trouble is coming, Legolas. The shadow grows._**

 ** _(5) I know, and we will defeat it. Come, eat, and drink of the feast._**

 ** _(6) Lily-Bell and Thistledown Song I by Louisa May Alcott_**

 ** _My last exam is tomorrow! :D So here's a long chapter to compensate for the abominable brevity of the last._**

 ** _As usual, everyone who has supported me in this somewhat insane endeavor of mine by favoriting/following/reviewing or some combination thereof has my sincerest gratitude. I couldn't do it without you all. When I get stuck, when the insidious whispers of self doubt gnaw at my soft spots, I fall back on your reviews as one might a life jacket when in a boat captained by an enthusiastic, but untried, amateur. So - THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for trusting me enough to steer this 'ship' away from any icebergs, lol._**

 ** _Oh - and I freaking LOVE Gimli... so expect more of that adorable Dwarf. But don't worry - not everyone is going to like Merrill (she's no Mary Sue) in the Fellowship. In fact, most will dislike her or be utterly indifferent. :) Gimli, though, was won over by thoroughly ribald and dirty lyrics, and will continue to be so. I've always seen him as the sort of Unwilling Uncle of the Fellowship; sure, he's the one who takes you out and gets you drunk on your 21st birthday, and will probably chuck condoms at you and mutter something through a raging blush about "No bairns', at some point, but he'll also make sure you remain, for the most part, on the straight and narrow, and will take great pleasure in deflating your sense of self-importance whenever it grows too large. Good Guy Gimli :)_**

 ** _Best wishes ~_**


	12. Chapter 12

**"For he would be thinking of love**

 **Till the stars had run away**

 **And the shadows eaten the moon."**

 **\- W.B. Yeats**

* * *

ooOoo

The day of the Council had arrived. A heavy hush had fallen over the whole of Rivendell. Elves scurried to-and-fro, eyes darting about, skin a little gray; Merrill knew the reason for their anxiety. At that very moment, the council was meeting to discuss the fate of the One Ring. Perhaps Gimli had already attempted to split it in two with his axe. Perhaps Gandalf had already muttered the nifty little poem about it in the language of Mordor that always left her shuddering. Or maybe they were all already arguing about who was to carry it to Mount Doom.

Whatever the case, the ring's insidious influence provided her with plenty of work. The Houses of Healing might as well have had a revolving door for how many elves came in complaining of headaches and deep-seated feelings of unease.

One elf came to her with a gash in his arm. A riding accident, he had said. She didn't even blink. Out came needle, thread, and sterile liquid and she deftly pulled his flesh back together. Merrill heard herself ordering him to keep the bandage dry and to take the prescribed tonic diligently for the next week in order to stave off infection before she sent him on his way. Another, fresh off four weeks at the border, came to her with a tender ankle. Merrill felt the bone and internally ran through the patient's symptoms in comparison to Nestadis' list for determining whether a bone was broken:

 _Slight hematoma and swelling present. Patient has difficulty moving the appendage, but does not recall hearing or feeling bone 'snap'. When area is palpated, patient indicates pain is spread out over a space wider than three fingers: generalized pain rather than focused. So the bone is whole - likely a strained or torn ligament. Nestadis' bruise balm, a splint, pain relief tonic, and plenty of rest recommended. One-week healing time – four to six weeks if patient is human._

Merrill rubbed the balm over the affected area, wrapped it in plenty of clean linen, set the splint, wrapped it again, and then administered the pain relief tonic. The elf drifted off into waking sleep, a smile of relief on her lips. But Merrill couldn't stop to congratulate herself; she had more patients waiting. With a sigh, she accepted the next patient and began the intake interview questions she'd been taught to ask.

Tonics, sheets, herbs, patients, and supply lists slipped through her hands as the minutes turned into hours, and she was soon diagnosing, and administering, headache relief tonic for herself. Never before had she worked so hard and so diligently. Part of her realized with some detachment that she had already worked past the limits of her human body. She'd lifted an adult male elf onto a bed when he'd fainted in her arms, carried three crates filled with tonic from the store room, and yanked a piece of a branch from a young man's calf with her bare hands, all without breaking a sweat. But she didn't have time to think about it for too long; another patient waited. She shoved her observations under the metaphorical rug and forged on.

Nestadis stopped her at midday for a brief luncheon of bread, fragrant cheese, dried apples, and a water based drink flavored with some sort of berry that left Merrill feeling refreshed. She hadn't noticed just how hungry she was. Merrill wolfed three pieces of the bread, and numerous slices of the cheese and apples before she felt at all human, again… _Well, Elven again_ , _at any rate_ , she supposed sourly.

Now that Merrill had a moment to breathe, she could see that Nestadis was in her element. She barked orders, oversaw patient exams, took deliveries of fresh herbs, and generally micro-managed. Merrill would have been impressed with her efficiency if only she hadn't been one of the things being micro-managed. One moment, Nestadis would instruct her to change the sheets on a recently vacated bed only to stop her mid-way through to tell her to change a bedpan, fetch a tonic, or keep track of those still waiting for treatment.

Merrill trailed half-finished tasks behind her as she rushed to obey until, finally, Nestadis asked shrewdly, "Wait… Aren't you meant to be at the Council with Radhrion?"

Merrill avoided eye contact and concentrated on pouring out a measure of headache tonic. The smell was pleasant; mint, willowbark, and green tea. She breathed it in before replying carefully, "No. They didn't actually need me." Merrill raised the glass she held up and asked hurriedly, "Who does this go to, again? Bed four?"

"Bed 9," she said absently, holding a quill to her lips while she looked over a supply sheet.

Merrill crept past her and only breathed easy once she had completed her task. It didn't seem like Nestadis would pursue her line of questioning any further. She was safe.

Just as she was helping an elderly, human woman off a bed, she heard raised voices from three doors down. Curious, she told the older woman to rub the balm she'd prescribed on her chest once in the morning and once at night to help ease her asthma before making her way down the hall.

As she drew near, she heard Radhrion's voice. It was pitched low, but rapid and sharp. Another voice, deep and slow, replied in elvish. He sounded conciliatory and apologetic. Radhrion scoffed.

Merrill peered around the doorway and saw Nestadis standing between Radhrion and a male elf with hair of starlight. He wore dark, gray robes and leaned on a staff. His eyes were the gray-blue of most of Rivendell's inhabitants. The book Elrond had lent her told her that this elf was most likely of Teleri or Sindar descent.

"Galdor." Nestadis steered him gently, but firmly, towards the door. "Daro! Boe anlen mened, ar e boe annin postad." (1)

Radhrion pushed past her and blocked the door. His face was wild, but his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "Why? Why did you not realize who she was? I asked you – I TOLD you – that this might happen!" Radhrion began to pace back and forth in front of the exit, his dark hair flaring out behind him, his hands clenching and unclenching. "Do you know what stirs in the East even now? Do you know what evil crosses the lands? Why bother coming if you do not know where she is? What use ARE YOU?" He bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth.

The halls behind her went silent. Merrill could feel others listening, and suddenly felt guilty for doing the same. She began to withdraw, shame wriggling in her stomach, but before she could go three steps, Radhrion's voice stopped her cold in her tracks.

"…Penin estel," his voice cracked and Merrill's heart constricted. (2)

She shoved the door open, ignoring Nestadis furious glare and Galdor's obvious disapproval, and wrapped her arms around Radhrion's back. She squeezed as tightly as she could until she heard his breath hitch, and then she squeezed tighter, burying her nose in his back and swaying. Merrill remembered the day her cat, Terry, had died. Her grandmother had held her where she knelt in the dirt and whispered soothing Italian into her hair. She hadn't understood the words at the time (her Italian wasn't great at seven years old) but they had eased the pain in her heart. Merrill recalled the smell of cloves, the sharp stones cutting into her bare knees, and the warmth of her grandmother's lips as they kissed the top of her head. "Partecipo al tuo dolore." She gripped his middle even more tightly and whispered, "E io sono qui se hai bisogno di me." (3)

Radhrion took a shuddering breath and his hands found her own. They were icy cold. Merrill did her best to engulf them in her own, to share her heat, and they began to warm.

After a few moments more, he had calmed enough to disentangle himself from her arms. Merrill stepped back to give him some space and tried to wrangle her own emotions. Until that moment, she had not realized just how much she depended on Radhrion; he was everything she had in this strange world. To see him in such pain made her heart ache and left her feeling strangely unbalanced. Because if joyful Radhrion could get angry, if teasing and sarcastic Radhrion could cry, if unfailingly polite Radhrion could scream, the world made just a bit less sense than it had that morning.

"Boe annin mened. Tolen de meriad." Radhrion's voice was dull, and rougher than sandpaper.

He turned to go, but remembered himself and his manners, enough to bow to Galdor, who watched with pinched lips. "Please accept my apologies and well wishes for your journey, my lord."

Radhrion strode out of the door without another word and Merrill raced after him.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **You are all impossibly kind - thanks SO much for your follows, favorites, and reviews!**

 **Longer chapter for next week - promise. I might even give you two :)**

 **Until next time,**

 **Best wishes ~**

 ** _(1) Galdor. Stop! You must go, and he needs to rest._**

 ** _(2) …I have no hope._**

 ** _(3) I share in your sadness. And I am here if you need me._**

 ** _(4)_ **_**I must go. I will protect her.** _


	13. Chapter 13

**"If I'm running out of time, then I'm running out of time**

 **There's nothing you can do, to try to pull me through**

 **Could tie me down with twine, give me back what's mine**

 **I wouldn't want you to, try to pull me through, oh Through, oh**

 **You'll find me in the morning, hidden within the rose**

 **Down beneath the great lake, and up where the jackdaw crows**

 **And my grandfather did ask me, do you know what you have done?**

 **There were ripples in the water I found them when you were young."**

 **\- Matthew and the Atlas, 'Within the Rose'.**

* * *

ooOoo

The sky outside the Houses of Healing roiled. The clouds were heavy and wrathful, the threat of rain contained in their extended bellies, and the air was chill.

Winter had come to Rivendell.

Merrill might have rejoiced at this disruption of monotony, but she didn't have the heart to do so. She had followed Radhrion across the bridge from the Houses of Healing, down several sets of stairs, past the base of one of the waterfalls, past the stables, and into the forest. And he hadn't said a word, or acknowledged her presence in any way.

The sun had fallen beyond the horizon and Merrill could see the lights of Rivendell glimmering in the distance; a promise of warmth, and food, and welcome. Radhrion, though, still moved forward. Stubbornly, he forged his way up steep inclines and slashed at encroaching vegetation. It was bordering on sacrilegious.

When she could no longer see Rivendell, at all, she wheezed, "Radhrion! Where are you going? It's dark, and the guards said orcs are sniffing about the borders."

He ripped at an unfortunate branch and flung it into the dark. "Go back to Rivendell, Merrill."

Alarm rippled along her spine; _what was he saying_? "Not without you," she said obstinately.

The leaves crunched under his boots and she was shocked she could even hear his movements; _what the actual hell was going on?_

She tried again. "Radhrion?"

"I'm not going back, Merrill."

The bottom dropped out of her stomach; the night seemed colder. "What does that mean?"

Radhrion whirled to face her, his eyes near sparking. "It means that I am leaving. Go back, Merrill. You cannot come with me." His words felt like a slap to the face; Radhrion started up the hill, and Merrill watched him go. Her knees suddenly felt weak, the blood roared in her head until it was all she could hear. Radhrion's back began to waver in her sight.

And suddenly she was angry; red, hot, blisteringly angry. Her fingernails bit into the flesh of her palms, and she tried to focus on that pain. "You won't even tell me why?"

There was no reply, only the sound of him getting further and further away.

Merrill desperately cast about for solid, logical, rational reasons he should stay, and could find none besides the obvious. "What about supplies? You don't even have your freaking bow, you jerk! You're not going to get very far without that!"

The forest swallowed him until all she could see were the trees. They loomed over her in the mounting dark; withdrawn and silent and asleep. It was too much like her first introduction to Middle Earth. _No, don't think about that._

"You can be angry!" she yelled after him. "But you can't do this! What am I supposed to tell Elrond? Or the twins? Or any of your other friends? What about-" Merrill's throat closed on the final word: _me_. Then she remembered something the twins had said that first night, almost three weeks ago, and shouted, "Is this what you do, Radhrion?! You stop off, say you'll be back, soon, then just _vanish_?! Don't you care what that _does_ to the people you leave behind?!"

There was no response. The inhabitants of the forest had gone silent at their approach. Not even birds or insects stirred. It was silent.

"You PROMISED!" Merrill roared, her hands clenched so hard she could feel her bones creak. She began to move forward, intent on following, but her foot found every crevice in the earth, every root, every rock.

Merrill's boot caught a root and she went sprawling face down in the dirt; _he was leaving. He was the only person she had, here. And he was leaving. She didn't even warrant an explanation._ The stones tore into her knees through her thin, linen breeches and her breath became jagged. She was seven years old, again, sitting beside a tiny, unmarked grave, clutching her grief to her chest with hands much too small to contain it.

The earth was wet beneath her knees; she could feel the damp wicking up her breeches. But she didn't move. She couldn't. "Please," she whispered hoarsely.

Gentle hands pulled her into a hug, and, to her mortification, she began to cry, beating her fist against his chest.

"Please," she tried again, but couldn't get the rest of the words out. _Please stay. Don't leave me here. I don't know what I'd do without you._

"I know, little bird. I know," he murmured into her hair, stroking down its length and mussing her curls. "I am sorry, Merrill."

"You jerk," she sniffled. "Don't you dare leave me here."

He shushed her soothingly, rocking his body. "I won't. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it."

Merrill cried even more, the relief she felt painful. He was staying. _I won't be alone._

"Shhhh, there, there. If I go anywhere, I will bring you with me." After some moments of silence, punctuated only by Merrill's steadily decreasing sniffles, he pulled away and asked concernedly, "Are you able to stand?"

Merrill wiped her nose off on her sleeve before stumbling to her feet, clutching at his hand for support. "What the hell is going on with you? What _was_ all that back there?"

He smoothed her hair back from her face, but his expression was stone. "It is… complicated."

"I think I can keep up."

Radhrion moved away from her and gazed out over the forest unseeingly. His hands were in constant motion; plucking at the sleeves of his tunic and raking through his hair before landing on the trunk of a tree, fingers curling so hard that his nails broke against the bark.

Blood dripped onto the leaves, below, but still he did not flinch or show any sign that he had noticed the pain. He sank to his knees, nails dragging sickeningly against the bark, bending and tearing in a way that made bile rise up into her throat.

Forgetting her tears of only moments before, she swooped down on him and forcibly removed his hands, grimacing at the feel of his warm blood as it slicked her palms. Nestadis' voice cracked like a whip in her head: _'What are you doing? Get him bandaged up and to the infirmary, Apprentice!'_

That voice had ordered her to rip barbed arrows from flesh, help push a man's bone back into his leg, and more, and it woke her from her stupor, now. Merrill tore at the bottom of her tunic, fully expecting it to rip. It did not; just another lie perpetrated by novels and movies. Somewhat hysterically, she cast about her for something sharp, her eyes landing on Radhrion's belt and the small hunting knife clipped to it. She snatched it up, but fumbled it three times before she managed to slit the hem of her tunic. Merrill tugged and it tore neatly. The cool air brushed against her exposed skin, but she ignored it and set to work, pulling Radhrion's limp hands into her lap and clucking in disapproval in an entirely Nestadis approved way.

When she had finished wrapping his hands she murmured, "What the hell happened to you, Radhrion?"

And that was all it took. All the fight went out of him; his shoulders slumped forward, his face obscured by the dark curtain of his hair. "I suppose..." he trailed off and Merrill wished she could see his face. "I have lost someone. Someone quite dear to me, and I had news that she'd been been sighted far from here, in Mithlond. Before I departed, I asked Galdor and many others to watch out for her; I thought she might arrive there, and worried that I would already have gone, but my wishes were not heeded, and she was not asked to stay, or even informed of my whereabouts. Galdor only realized his mistake a month after she'd departed, so she is lost to me, again, in the midst of this treacherous time – at the start of this ghastly war. And I have not the slightest hope of discovering her; I cannot even predict what she might do, next." Radhrion's voice put her in mind of dead leaves being blown about on concrete, their brittle edges catching on the rough edges of the stone; skittering and scratching. His next words were addressed dully to his knees. "The Council this morning only compounded my fears; she is out there, somewhere, while one of the greatest evils this land has ever known lives once more. His agents have infiltrated the Greenwood and nearly overcome Gondor, according to Legolas and Boromir. And, if that were not enough to cause alarm or excuse my rash behavior, he has also corrupted the greatest wizard Middle Earth has ever known; Saruman has fallen to his particular brand of malicious charm. Saruman's power is now used in Mordor's defense. How is she ever to pass unseen? How is she to win free of Mordor's nets?" Radhrion grabbed her wrists with his half-bandaged hands, startling her so badly she dropped the bandage. His grip was tight enough to bruise, but Merrill couldn't bring herself to move; his cloud blue eyes darted between her own. and he visibly trembled as he asked desperately, "Now do you see, Merrill? Do you see why I fled?"

Merrill tugged ineffectually at his hands, but they were steel on her wrists. "Let's start from the beginning. Who is she? Is she your… wife?" She wasn't sure why, but the very idea of Radhrion as a husband was entirely alien to her; he was too mischievous, too youthful, too… _Radhrion_ , to be a husband.

Radhrion's grip slackened until his hands simply fell away to land gracelessly in his lap. He examined his fingers with some detachment; his eyes were vacant and dry. When he looked up, she knew he wasn't seeing her, but someone else, and the emptiness of his stare sent knives lancing through her chest. She pulled him into a tight embrace, hoping her arms could do what her words could not, and waited him out.

Just as Merrill was about to suggest they return to Rivendell, a hoarse whisper shattered the silence. "She is my _soul_ ," he answered fervently. "She is my mate. She is my love…" He squeezed his eyes shut as though in pain. "… She is my heart."

Merrill squirmed. She would be absolutely no help, whatsoever, in finding this person; she had no survival skills to speak of, and it wasn't like she could just ring up her cell phone provider and ask them to track this person's GPS. This was a time for Bear Grylls and Sherlock Holmes, but Radhrion had been stuck with her: a being as imposing as a teddy bear and as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

Maybe Glorfindel had been right: in this world, she really was nothing more than a squalling babe. She couldn't even help her best friend.

Merrill swallowed around the hopelessness in her throat; there would be plenty of time later on for her to feel sorry for herself. For now, her focus would have to remain solely on helping Radhrion – in whatever way she could.

She stamped down hard on her self-pity and rested her chin against his shoulder, hugging him even more tightly. "I know it doesn't mean much, but I promise I'll do my best to help you find her, Ronny. And I know for a fact Elrond will help, as will everyone else. This isn't hopeless."

"You cannot help me, little bird," he responded quietly.

With a grunt, Merrill levered him to his feet, her mouth and chin set mulishly. "And yet, I will; funny how that works." She worked her voice back to cheerful optimism before asking, "So, do you have any ideas? How can we find her? Where can we start?"

His lips twisted, but he relented and replied reluctantly, "…Galadriel. We will have to journey to the Golden wood… it seems you will be joining myself and the others, after all." Radhrion allowed her to sling his arm across her shoulders.

"Huh?"

"The Council you did not attend determined that I should join the quest to destroy… Well, a dangerous artefact. I don't believe it is prudent that we discuss the particulars out in the open. Suffice it to say that I, and ten others, will be departing Rivendell in a few months' time. And you will accompany me… unless you have objections?"

"How in the heck did you get caught up in the Fellowship?" she asked disbelievingly, her voice still clogged with residual emotion. "I'm gone for two, blessed minutes…"

He smiled weakly at her attempt at humor. "I would ask how you have come to possess such knowledge, but I begin to have some idea of the shape of your answer. But you will come? Even knowing what this quest sets out to do?" Radhrion used his forearm to move a branch out of her path. She listened hard, but the only footsteps she heard were her own. She exhaled contentedly. _Her world was beginning to make sense, again._

"Dude. I promised I would help you. Besides, you just saw me ugly cry," she replied reproachfully. "Of course I'm coming with you."

"What does one have to do with the other?"

She squeezed his arm and said simply, "Everything."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **So Ronny just keeps breaking my heart, guys. Dude has a convoluted story, and I can't wait for you all to learn some of it!**

 **As always, thank you ever so much for your kind reviews, faves, and follows. They really are writer fuel. And KillerCupcakes - you made me laugh, again! Mama didn't raise no fool, indeed. You will see more of Merrill subverting what she believes to be the plans of others; she can't help herself. :)**

 **Also, because you are all so wonderful, I'll probably be posting another, longer chapter in a few days, so happy holidays, all! I hope that, whether you are celebrating something now or not, the season treats you well and keeps you safe.**

 **Best wishes ~**


	14. Chapter 14

**Lady Nancy Astor:**  
 **"If you were my husband, I'd put poison in your coffee."**

 **Winston Churchill:**  
 **"If you were my wife, I'd drink it."**

* * *

ooOoo

After a pit stop at the infirmary, Radhrion had left her in front of her rooms. When she insisted they camp out together in the kitchens for the night, citing the proximity of certain curious comestibles, he declined; his head ached and all he wished for was Miruvor and sleep. Merrill, worried for him, begrudgingly accepted this, but demanded he wake her if he needed anything. Only when he'd rolled his fair eyes and agreed did she let him leave.

Alone, worried, and with the dregs of upset still fizzling unpleasantly in her veins, she tried to sleep, she really did, but her mind would not shut up; what was going to happen to her? The ring quest was no laughing matter, if she was remembering the movies, correctly, and she could not remember if the events in the movies aligned with the events in the books, so it could actually be a whole lot worse. _And Radhrion… Radhrion's wife was missing_ ; that sentence still didn't sound right, even in her head.

 _How in the hell am I going to survive? How am I going to help him? Nordir has been trying to teach me how to use a bow, but I still fumble the arrows more often than not, and I've only hit the target ten or so times._ Merrill flopped impatiently onto her other side and kicked at her blankets with her feet. _Why on earth did I never reread the books?! Mom kept recommending them to me, and I just kept putting them off. Though, to be fair, I never thought that reading them more than once might one day save my life._ She gazed wistfully at the smooth ceiling, twirling a curl around her finger. _I'm proper doomed._

With a disgusted grumble, Merrill tossed her blankets aside and went in search of her boots. If she couldn't sleep, then she might as well do something productive.

Her boots were tucked away in her bureau, freshly shined. She slipped them on and glanced into the mirror. Before her stood a young girl with sleep tossed black curls tumbling over her shoulders, chapped lips, and sleepy, hazel eyes. Merrill glared at her reflection; her pointed ears peeked out of her curls no matter how she arranged them. They were a reminder of all that had changed in the past three weeks, and all that would continue to change. And it was a reminder she could do without.

Merrill scanned her room for something to pull over her nightgown. It was white, lacy, and overlong, and to be seen in it by anyone other than Cailiel, who insisted it made her look 'darling', would be cataclysmically embarrassing.

In fact, it did not make her look 'darling'; it made her look like her grandmother. All she needed was some cold cream slathered across her long nose and dotted along her cheeks, and she'd be set for Halloween.

The bureau, however, contained nothing but the clothes she'd arrived in. Cailiel had washed her jeans, her t-shirt, and her hoodie, even scrubbing her periwinkle blue hi-tops until they shone. Merrill pulled them out with reverential hands. They smelled of lavender. Six satchets had been placed in each shoe.

She held her sweater up to her nose and breathed deeply; if she tried really hard, she could almost smell her fabric softener. Her eyes began to water as she set it back down with shaking hands; the smells brought back memories of her childhood. Of her home. Of her mother and their little, yellow house with the iron gate that creaked when you opened it, and lilac trees planted along the perimeter. In summer, it smelled of wisteria, lilac, fresh cut grass, and laundry detergent, which filtered out from the side of the house and perfumed the air.

Stiffly, she pulled them on. Sliding on her jeans felt like a religious experience, and her hoodie was softer, and warmer, than anything she had worn since. Merrill slipped into her converse, grabbed her practice bow and quiver, and tiptoed down the hall.

It was dark, but the silvery moon lit the walls between the arches just enough for her to see by. This surprised her; at home, she had had the worst night-vision ever. Her ophthalmologist had warned her against driving at night. Now, though, she could creep, cat-like, through the dark without so much as stubbing her toe. Somehow, this new development did NOT bring her the joy she thought it would.

When she came to the front door, she eased it open and stepped out. The night air was cooler than she'd expected, but it helped her to shake away some of her sadness and focus on what she planned to do. She hitched her quiver over her shoulder and strode purposefully towards the training fields. If she was going to spend the time worrying, anyway, than she might as well do something about it.

The training fields were blessedly empty. The moon gilded the treetops in silver glass and settled in dappled pools of light across the ground. Nearby, the stream rushed and sighed and slipped over its rocks, and the velvety blue of the night sky appeared to be littered with pulsing swirls of starlight.

Merrill stood in silence, for a moment, just soaking it all in. Light pollution had spoiled all attempts at star-gazing in her childhood so much that staring up into the sky, then, felt like finally meeting an old relation she'd heard of all her life. She ought to have felt something, been stirred by the sublime beauty of so untainted a world, but her heart was conflicted. It yearned for what it had known all its life, and disregarded what it had now with stubborn willfulness.

Methodically, Merrill set out an archery target, cloth stuffed full of straw, leather, and other, soft bits, strapped her quiver to her back, and strung her bow. The target was set close enough that even she might have a chance of hitting it, though, even with the odds weighted so heavily in her favor, that outcome was unlikely; she just hadn't had enough time to practice, and, if she were being honest, she hadn't wanted to. In the back of her mind, she told herself she would be going home soon, and she wouldn't need such skills, there.

She rolled her neck and shook out her wrists; pulling the string back was still a challenge, and it helped to be as loose and relaxed as possible before she tried. Her bow was light in her hands, the wood warming at her touch. She grabbed an arrow and nocked it, setting the shaft along the slight divot Nordir had carved for just such a reason.

 _Breathe, Merrill._ The fletching tickled her ear as she pulled back. The world shrunk to nothing but the target. The noises of the night faded until all she could hear was her breath and the creak of the bow.

She released.

The arrow sped off and into the night. Merrill held her breath. Then a dull thud echoed back to her; she had hit yet another innocent tree.

 _What did I do wrong?_ She thought crossly as she stomped into the forest to retrieve her arrow. _My feet were set, my elbow straight and tense, my pull was fluid, and I anchored the arrow near the corner of my mouth. What gives!?_

The arrow had embedded itself in a tree that had been a victim of her careless aim in the past. Merrill patted its abused trunk apologetically and whispered, "It's a good thing you have such thick bark, my friend, because it does not appear my aim will be improving any time soon."

The trees' tired thoughts brushed against her mind consolingly and Merrill shuddered; she still wasn't used to _that_ particular bit of elfy-ness.

A noise from behind her alerted her to someone's presence.

"It is not your aim, but your stance, that leads to your friends' injuries, Merilinith."

Merrill didn't bother turning around, nor did she react with surprise; her elven ears were getting better, it seemed. "Nordir would probably agree, though he does so enjoy insulting me. Perhaps you and he should get together and form a club, Prince." She yanked her arrow free and trudged past him back to the field.

Legolas fell into step beside her. "That is hardly fair. It is _you_ who has taken great pleasure in being as contrary as possible to _me_."

Merrill ignored him. She lined back up with her target, settled her feet, and pulled the arrow back. She let loose, praying silently as it flew through the air until it thudded against the base of the target.

"Well, that could have gone worse, I suppose," she said to herself.

Legolas began to circle her. "It could have gone better, too," he remarked casually.

Merrill followed him with her eyes, turning with him. "Do you have words of wisdom to impart, oh God of Archery? Or did you come here just to annoy me?"

He stopped circling, a look of some consternation overtaking his face. "I hardly know."

"What does that mean?" She retrieved another arrow and took her time nocking it.

Instead of answering, Legolas gently tugged the bow from her hands, nocked it, and fired all within the span of three seconds. The arrow landed triumphantly dead center. It shook with residual force. He handed her bow back, and said neutrally, "I could train you, if you'd like. You have the makings of a fine archer."

She laughed at that, but there was no real humor in it. "You don't need to lie; I suck. Besides, how could I ask a prince to teach me archery? No, you'd be better off spending your time elsewhere. It's just as you said: we don't exactly get along."

"I never said that," Legolas replied quietly.

"Didn't you?" she asked airily, squinting at the target.

Legolas shook his head, a shock of silver hair spilling over his shoulder. "I did not. And I would prefer you call me by my name, Merilinith. I am not your prince, and you are not one of my subjects. Nor is this a formal occasion. Also," he held up one finger to forestall her protestations. "You were sick on me. That, if nothing else, gives me the right to ask this of you."

Merrill's face burned as she remembered her ill-fated tree-climbing attempt; she had hoped that she'd made that part up, misremembered or imagined puking on the princeling's boots. _Why me?_ Merrill internally smacked her forehead against a wall and groaned. _I'm asking that question a lot lately. God, this sucks._

Legolas's brow drew down when she didn't respond and he asked softly, "Can you not just accede to this small request? Is it truly so difficult to call me by my name?"

 _What the hell sort of tone was that?_ She bristled. _Why does he sound like Tiny Tim wishing Scrooge a Merry Christmas after having his cane kicked out from under him?_

She cleared her throat resolutely and answered obliquely, "Fine, then, _Legolas_. What am I doing wrong? Why can't I hit the target?"

"Take your stance and I will show you," he offered with a hopeful smile.

She set herself into the stance she'd been taught, her feet shoulders' width apart, elbow parallel to the ground so that she formed a 'T' shape with her upper body, left shoulder pointing toward the target. She straightened her back and settled the arrow at its nock point, pulling the arrow back with three fingers until the feathers brushed against the corner of her mouth.

Legolas circled her again. She tried to relax, but his gaze made her nervous. _Is he some type of predator or what? Even the way he sets his feet down as he walks is measured. He tenses his whole body in that way big cats do right before they pounce on the poor, defenseless Caribou and rip it to shreds. Maybe Elves are Middle Earth's apex predator._ Merrill peered at him from the corner of her eye and felt goosebumps ripple down her spine. _Come to think of it, they really are. If they decided to abandon their tree hugging, peace and love attitude, Elves could absolutely annihilate every other species… They're immortal, intelligent, overwhelmingly attractive, hardy, and innately talented at everything. They are imposing in every possible way: mentally, physically, even spiritually with the spirit healing they can do. I wonder why they don't just take over?_ Her arms began to tremble with the effort of holding the bowstring, and a droplet of sweat slid down her nose. _God, is he going to examine me all night? I get it, my posture sucks! Just -_

Without warning, his hands shot out and gripped her hips, swiveling them forward, his fingertips burning through her t-shirt as they trailed up her ribs to her shoulders and pushed down. He murmured into her ear, his voice low, his breath warm against her neck, "Tuck your hips under you and narrow your stance; it is far too wide."

Merrill's throat went dry and goosebumps exploded wherever he touched her. His breath smelled of crushed mint, his hair of flowers, and the faintest scent of leather clung to the green wool of his tunic. In one, exceedingly ill-timed move, Merrill turned her head to meet his eyes and found that they were already on her. Within them she saw irritation, exasperation, and something brighter peeking from behind it all. It was like the sun rising up from behind a mountain range, heralding a new day. Starlight drifted onto his hair, gilding him in silver light, and for a single, heady moment, she could see herself reflected in the deep blue of his eyes. She nodded mutely, not trusting her voice enough to speak, and resettled herself.

"Better. Now, aim." He pulled back on her forearm. "And remember to let the string slip from your fingers. Don't pluck it or try to follow it with your fingers; it will knock the arrow askew. Breathe." The silk of his lips grazed the tip of her ear and her pulse stuttered. "Release."

The arrow got tangled in her fingers on release and the arrow came to a stop at the outer edge of the target.

Merrill stepped away from him; his proximity did nothing for her coherence. It rather left her feeling irrationally angry. "I know, I know. I mucked up the release. Let me try again."

He held one hand out, palm up, indicating she should do as she liked, a slanted smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes.

Her ears tingled at the sight. _Okay, ignore pretty-boy and breathe; settle your shoulders, and don't forget to let the string go without jerking or trembling on release._ Merrill assumed her stance and took aim. _God, if that didn't sound dirty. And I can't even say, 'That's what she said,' because no one here would get it, or, if they did, they'd probably sneer or die of shock._

"Breathe," he reminded, interrupting her internal monologue.

"Fat lot of good that'll do me with you here," she muttered under her breath, then released. The string slipped from her fingers and, in that moment, everything was just right. She knew, without looking, she would hit the target.

The arrow hit the third circle out from the center; not the best by the standards of others, but for Merrill, it was nothing short of miraculous. She jumped into the air, squealing in excitement. "I hit it! I hit it!"

"Yes. Now you must endeavor to do so every time, and with greater accuracy."

Merrill pulled a face at him, but refrained from sticking her tongue out. "You couldn't just tell me I did a good job, could you?"

Legolas tucked his hands behind his back and leaned forward, the earnestness of his demeanor confusing her. "Would you like to be coddled, then? Would you allow such familiarity? Forgive me, but I was under the impression that you should dislike that more than anything, especially if it was I who made such overtures."

"It's not coddling, Legolas. It's encouragement. Big difference, dude." She nearly skipped to the target to retrieve her arrows. When she turned around, she'd made her mind up. _Here goes,_ she thought nervously. "I think we should try to be friends, and I'd like it if you could, you know, help me with this whole archery thing whenever you're not busy doing princely stuff." When he didn't reply, merely smiled enigmatically, she barreled on. "If I am better with a bow, and we're not at each other's throats, it'll make trekking out into the wilderness together that much easier. I mean, we're already going to have enough to worry about on the quest. Don't you think it'd be easier if we got along?"

The boyish smile faded. "Quest?" he echoed.

"Yeah, you know the one. Evil jewelry in need of destroying? The Fellowship? I'm coming, too."

He looked like he'd been smacked over the head with a mallet. "Surely you are mistaken."

Merrill's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Who gave you leave?" he demanded, his playful demeanor vanishing in favor of righteous indignation.

"Radhrion asked me if I would come, and I agreed. He's talking to Lord Elrond in the morning." _So there_ , she thought smugly.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

Legolas shook his head, his arms crossing stiffly over his chest. "You will not be coming. You are hardly suited for so perilous a task, and what warriors we do have will be wholly absorbed with protecting Frodo. We shall not be able to protect you, and you are clearly unable to protect yourself." He gestured vaguely towards the target as though citing a collection of evidence proving her incompetence. "None of us can afford any further distractions. You understand this, don't you? The quest is of vital importance to the continuation of this earth; we must each of us be willing to make sacrifices to ensure its' completion. Perhaps this is yours."

"Gah! I have never, not once, met someone as arrogant and unknowingly condescending as you. Your sense of superiority really knows no bounds. But I'll let you in on a little secret that is sure to shock you: you do NOT get to make such decisions for me, no matter how you feel about me coming. _My_ life is not predicated on _your_ feelings, you ass." She snatched up her bow and quiver and marched further down the field, intent on continuing her practice alone. "I will work on my archery elsewhere; I'd hate to be a _distraction_."

"You behave as an elfling denied a sweet, Merilinith."

Merrill whirled round and advanced, poking him hard in the chest. "What gives you the right? I know full well, probably more so than you, how dangerous this quest is going to be, and have decided to go, anyway. I will not be a danger to you or the others – Radhrion will be there, and he will keep me safe. Plus, I don't intend to be a total deadweight – I have some talents that will prove useful to you all, not the least of which is healing."

Legolas leaned into her space, his eyes glinting, his jaw tight. "Your appalling lack of concern for the well-being of the others only proves how unfit you are to join us. This is a journey of warriors, of brothers-in-arms, whose first impulse, and most ardent desire, must always be the safety of his companions. But you-" He pulled away and stared up into the night sky, clearly attempting to rein in his temper. He exhaled wearily, dragging a hand across his eyes. "Merilinith… this quest is beyond all of us. Though unspoken, we all know in our hearts that it is unlikely we shall ever return, whether we are triumphant or no. We have very little hope." His eyes flicked back to her own, and he said earnestly, "There is not one amongst us who would wish to subject you to such hardships, to encourage you to walk the dark path upon which we now set our feet. It is a fell mantle we have taken up, but we have done so to defend what goodness and innocence remains. You cannot believe, then, that we would willingly welcome you into our ill-fated party - you are what we go to preserve."

Merrill wanted nothing more than to smack him, but a part of her recognized some of what he said was true. If she went along expecting Radhrion to protect her, it was likely he would be injured in her defense. Her presence might even cause the ring to fall into enemy hands… But did she really care? This wasn't her world. If she was right, it wasn't even real; just some fictional reality created by a bored Englishman in the thirties… Why should she base her decision on them? They were just characters!

 _If they're just characters, then why isn't Radhrion in the books? Why aren't you mentioned? Is Cailiel fake, too? Are you going to jeopardize them by insisting on this? Are you really that selfish?_ Her conscience asked.

 _Oh, shut it! I'm done making sacrifices for this place – don't you think my being here is sacrifice, enough? I just want to go home. I want to sleep in my own bed, take a shower with my wonderful showerhead, hug my mom, watch a movie with Annie, and finish my degree! Is it really so wrong of me to want any of that? To not want to wait two months after they've left to leave, too? To not want to be separated from Ronny? He's the only damn person I have here!_

Massively frustrated with the direction her traitorous thoughts had taken, Merrill flung her quiver across her back. "You don't understand… my being in Middle Earth is a sacrifice, already, and I'm done making those." She turned on her heel before she remembered something and shouted furiously over her shoulder, "And once and for all - my name is NOT Merilinith! It's Merrill!"

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Told you I'd update soon!**

 **These two idiots just don't understand each other at all, do they? But do not fret - they will get there, eventually... though they are going to take the long way 'round, obviously. :) And Merrill is adorably selfish, isn't she? To be fair, she's also low key terrified; she hasn't faced the reality of her situation fully, yet, and Middle Earth's Codes of Honor and Ethics, etc. are VASTLY different from the codes she has grown up with.  
**

 **Thanks for the reviews, faves, and follows - I appreciate every one.**

 **Happy holidays/joys of the season/just general good wishes if you don't celebrate anything! I'll 'see' you in 2019!  
**

 **Be safe** **& ****Best wishes ~**


	15. Chapter 15

**"Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do,** **to keep in the same place.**

 **If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!"**

 **– Lewis Carroll, 'Alice in Wonderland'.  
**

* * *

ooOoo

Merrill practiced doggedly. She stayed at the practice fields until the sky began to lighten in the East and birds began to sing their songs in earnest, and then she packed it in and returned to her rooms.

As Cailiel wasn't due to arrive for several more hours, Merrill contented herself with a quick wash using a wash rag and a ceramic jug of water set out for drinking. It wasn't the best, but it would have to do. She unstrung her bow and gave it a good rub with a polishing cloth, then ran a hunk of beeswax over the string; Nordir had drilled it into her head that the state of her weapons would one day be all that stood between her and death. Merrill felt he exaggerated, but then several other Elves had chimed in with horror stories of bowstrings that snapped at just the wrong moment, or arrowheads that broke off rather than pierce through leather armor. After she'd finished checking her arrowheads (all still firmly attached to their shafts), she stowed her gear and changed into a clean tunic and breeches. She felt a pang as she removed her converse; strangely, though she still loved them, she had begun to prefer the comfort and stability of her Elven boots.

When there was nothing left for her to do to keep her hands busy, Merrill left her rooms and wound her way down the halls to the House of Healing where she knew Nestadis would be hard at work and eager for her apprentice's assistance.

As she had predicted, Nestadis was already there. Over a dozen wounded humans filled the beds. Elves in the white robes indicating their status as Healers rushed about, calling out requests for various medicines in modulated tones. Even in a crisis, Elves were unfailingly polite.

Merrill approached Nestadis, whose hands were busy stitching up a young man's forehead. "What happened, here?"

Nestadis' focus didn't waver for a moment. "Orcs attacked the nearby village. These people are all that are left."

"All that are left?" she echoed hollowly.

Nestadis nodded, her needle darting like a silver fish through bloody water. "Thirty-seven villagers. Thirty-seven out of two-hundred."

Merrill flinched. Thirty-seven out of two-hundred people. "How many orcs?"

"Forty," she replied curtly, snipping her thread in a way that made Merrill wince.

Colorful words flew from Merrill's lips in a mixture of Italian, Korean, and Dwarvish and Nestadis smiled weakly. "Okay. I'll curse them out later. Where do you need me?"

Nestadis eyed her consideringly, biting her lip. Her dark skin was ashen, and her hands trembled, but her voice was as steady and stern as ever. "Go help the others at bed 2. The patient there has a gut wound and they can use every pair of hands they can get."

Merrill turned to do as she was bid, then stopped and asked tentatively, "Are you sure you don't need me? You look just about done in."

She threw her head back and cackled. Actually cackled.

"Fine," she said defensively. "I was just asking to be nice."

She scurried away to wash up, Nestadis' laughter floating along behind her. Merrill yanked potholders onto her hands and lifted the small cauldron of boiling water out of the hearth before carefully pouring just enough into a bowl to wash her hands and returning it to the fire. Then she took an ewer of cold water and mixed the two until it was cool enough to use, but warm enough to kill germs. She began to scrub her hands with a bar of white, stringent soap. It left her hands red and chapped, but it worked. She dried them off and headed for bed 2.

It was a nightmare. An arrow pierced the man's gut, and blood was spilling down his front. It coated his torso, the blankets, and dripped steadily onto the white of the wooden floor in a contrast that brought bile into the back of her throat. The Healers' hands were bloody from applying pressure. One chanted, his voice low and his eyes closed. Merrill quickly found bits of clean linen and began to sponge away some of the blood, so the others might better see the damage.

"The arrow has to come out. Merrill, on my count, I need you to swiftly remove it. I need to have my hands free to stem the bleeding and suture. Are you able to do this?"

Merrill met the pretty she-elf's eyes; they were gray-blue and serene. She didn't know her name. "Yeah. Just… just straight out, right? Or do I have to follow the angle of the trajectory?"

The healer set Merrill's hands at just the right angle on the shaft; they shook. "Try to follow this angle, but, honestly, there is very little you can do to make this worse. Penwen?" she called to another healer. "I need the cauterizer, if you would."

An elf in the dark green robes of an apprentice healer rushed to obey. She returned almost immediately, a flat, metal tool with a thick, leather grip in her hands. Its flat, wide tip glowed cherry red.

The healer took it and met Merrill's eyes. "On my count, Merrill. Three, two, one."

Merrill closed her eyes and pulled. She felt the arrowhead tearing flesh, heard the thick, sucking sound, and her stomach roiled in protest. The smell of blood hit her like a hammer to the gut: it smelled of a handful of pennies held too long in a sweaty palm. She could almost taste the copper on the air.

The arrow pulled free, at last, and other healers grabbed her by the shoulders and moved her out of the way to get to work.

The arrow lay in her hands, black, barbed, and bloody. Though she hadn't been healing long, she had already seen enough of such arrows to know their origin. "Orcs," she cursed. Disgustedly, she flung the thing into a bucket just in case the elves wished to use it in their Fëa Athae, and got back to work. She fetched more linen pads to sop up blood, herbal disinfectants, and more thread when necessary. She also kept the floor clear of bloody rags.

At one point, the man woke and began to scream. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed until Merrill considered holding a pillow over his face to make it stop. That thought scared her. So, in penance, she forced herself to listen as he bawled, writhed, and begged incoherently. The sound, coupled with everything else, made Merrill want to gouge out her eardrums – she settled for puking, instead.

She stood off to the side clutching her stomach, her throat raw, and observed the process as closely as she could manage; Nestadis was insistent that Merrill immerse herself as fully as possible in every aspect of the healing process. Whenever the patient was too unstable for her to work on, she watched and learned.

The room finally grew quiet. The male healer who had been chanting had woven a sedation spell over the patient, and the others were able to cauterize and suture him up in relative peace.

When they'd finished, it was Merrill who was ordered to change his dressings every hour and dose him with what she had gleaned were elven antibiotics. She would have protested, but they all looked so exhausted she couldn't bring herself to do it, even if it meant she had to keep the wound open and draining. It was the most revolting part of the healing process, but Nestadis had forced her to handle each and every patient with a drain from the very beginning. "For practice," she'd said, but Merrill was convinced it had more to do with punishment or perverse enjoyment. Nestadis took her pleasure in odd ways.

 _At least it won't smell for a little while_ , Merrill thought unhappily. _Infection hasn't set in, which means pus hasn't had the chance to form, so I should be able to keep down some tea, at least._ Merrill went to the hearth where another cauldron hung. This one, though, was specifically for Meril Echuir, or Wakeflower tea, a substance more lethal than the strongest espresso, and infinitely more tar-like. (1) She had only had it once before, when she'd needed a pick-me-up. Nestadis had innocently suggested it, and Merrill, naïve and sleepy, had taken her up on her offer. It burned like brandy down her throat, shot through her lungs and sinuses like drain cleaner, and left her brain simmering with energy. She had half-expected smoke to come out of her ears.

Now, though, Merrill was wise enough to pour herself half a mug before lightening it with heavy cream and thick, dark honey. One sip and all of the hair on her body stood on end. Another, and her pupils dilated.

This was _good_ stuff, and definitely not approved by most governments.

She cradled the mug in her hands and strode briskly to her patient's side, turning the small time-turner by his bedside to mark the passing of time.

After about a quarter of an hour, an apprentice dropped off the tool she would need: the drain. It was a hollowed vine grown especially for the purpose. On the tray beside it lay an expanded animal bladder of some kind that attached to one end of the vine when the drain was put in place to encourage the pus to exit the wound. Merrill hadn't understood until she remembered having to siphon gas out of her grandpa's small tractor with a plastic pipe. Her grandpa had instructed her to suck on the end to create a vacuum that would pull the gas into the pipe, and it had worked. This was much the same concept. The end of the vine would be placed into a bucket to collect any drain-off, and the bladder would be detached.

The other apprentices insisted that she could just as easily use the bladder to collect the fluid, dumping it out occasionally, but Merrill had refused. She didn't care that it had been treated with a special sap to ensure it would continue to inflate and deflate; the one time she had tried it the bladder had sprung a leak, and the resulting mess had left a sour taste in her mouth - literally. The less said of that experience, the better.

Merrill settled in for the long haul. Now that her hands weren't busy, her mind wandered. It settled on her morning's argument with the brat prince. _Why can't Legolas and I get along? Everything starts off fine, it even gets friendly, then he says something absolutely infuriating and it all goes downhill from there. I'm sure he wasn't this exasperating in the movies. Perhaps he is more similar to his book counterpart._ Merrill took a sip of her tea and her whole body shuddered. _If we're to work together, though, we have to come to some sort of truce. It would be awkward if we went the whole journey ignoring each other._

She glanced at the time-turner and saw that it was time to install the drain and change his dressings. Gripping her courage (and her gag reflex), Merrill peeled back the dressing. She breathed a sigh of relief; no smell and no pus. If she'd found either so early on, it meant the patient's recovery was unlikely. As it was, there was still a lot of watery blood to be drained. Merrill gritted her teeth and sealed her lips tight before she pushed the end of the vine into the opening the healers had left in the sutures. It was like stabbing a raw steak with a metal straw; the sensation of the firm flesh giving way beneath the pressure was far too visceral for her liking. Rapidly, before she could regret her tea, she attached the bladder to the other end and pumped it three times. It expanded, pulling air down the vine. With a practiced twist, she detached the bladder and dropped the end of the vine into the bucket with a quiet 'thunk'. One beat, two beats, three beats, and then a small splash.

She re-washed her hands and then wrapped the wound once more, being careful not to disturb the vine. The drain would stay in place for the next few days, until the worst of the infection was bled off from the wound, then the sutures would be finished and the true healing would begin.

Merrill had just gone for her second cup of tea when a hand gripped her shoulder. She glanced up from her position over the cauldron and met Elrond's silver eyes. They were more serious than she had ever seen them. _Uh oh. Radhrion must have spoken with him, then._

"Might we have a word? I have already spoken with Nestadis."

She sighed, setting her cup down. "Lead on, my lord."

Elrond strolled out of the Houses of Healing and onto the bridge connecting them to the rest of Rivendell. He wore a sleeveless over robe of hearts-blood red wool embroidered at the collar with golden flowers, and a full-sleeved under robe of palest gold silk that shimmered in the morning light. Atop his shining black hair was set a delicate golden circlet, and only one ring adorned his finger. It was silver and plain, with an uncut gem of indefinable color in the setting. As she examined it, the world around her narrowed to a point, the center of which was the ring, itself. It thrummed and pulsed like a living thing, and Merrill thought, briefly, that she could hear her mother's voice.

With a monumental effort, Merrill dragged her eyes away and returned to the conversation at hand. _I was admiring his clothes_ , she reminded herself. She glanced down at her modest slate gray breeches and hunter green tunic. Besides the Lord of Imladris, she felt positively underdressed.

He set both of his hands lightly along the smooth stone of the bannister and gazed out over his home. "Radhrion came to speak with me this morning," he began, his voice mellow and contemplative.

"I thought he might."

Elrond slid his hand along the bannister and back, watching the movement. His silver eyes were thoughtful. "He desired that you should accompany him and the others on their quest. Though he admitted his heart is fearful of the outcome of such a decision, he also claimed that he had a feeling that it would be unwise to leave you behind, both for his own quest, and for the one on which you both intend to go with the others." Elrond's hands gripped the stone a little more tightly. "However, I feel I must caution you: I know how fond you are of Radhrion, but to make a decision of this magnitude, which might cost you your life, based only on affection would appear rash to some. I would advise you to consider this subject more deeply. You have time to do so; the Fellowship will not leave for some months, yet. Frodo is yet recovering from his wound, the others need time to prepare and compile supplies, and orcs have been spotted along our borders and the main road, the results of which you have seen today in the House of Healing."

Merrill bit her lip and leaned back against the railing. It was cold against her back, and it helped her to organize her thoughts. Finally, she said, "You are right; I am very fond of Radhrion. But you are also wrong, for how else should such a decision be made? Don't the others choose to take this risk because of love? Love for their people, their families, their homelands, their wives, children, and parents? You cannot tell me Aragorn goes into battle, and almost certain death, to reclaim his homeland; he has made it abundantly clear he has very little interest in his birthright. No, he goes to make the world safer for the one he loves. Love, my lord, is as good a reason as any, and better than most, on which to wager your life, and I intend to do just that. Besides," she said more quietly. "It is not just for my affection for Radhrion that I go. I go for selfish reasons, too. I have a… feeling that they will pass through Lothlorien, and the Lady Galadriel, as you have, yourself, suggested, might hold the answers I seek."

Elrond's expression had lost some of its tranquility. Merrill watched as he cycled through concern, sorrow, fondness, saddened affection, and, finally, reserved acceptance. He murmured resignedly, "It seems my destiny for my advice to be denied by the women I hold most dear."

A flash of insight struck her; he was speaking of Arwen, of course, and her refusal to sail to be with Aragorn. Her heart went out to him, but she would not change her mind, just as Arwen had not.

Before she could reply, he continued more evenly, "I apologize, Merilinith. I assumed you had made this decision impulsively, allowing emotions to cloud your reason and better judgment, but I was evidently mistaken. You have given this the thought it requires." He turned away from the view and took her hands in his own; they were warm to the touch and as smooth as glass. "But I would ask that you reconsider, all the same. I will be able to send you to Lothlorien some time after the Fellowship leaves, possibly the month after, with guards whose sole focus would be your well-being. The Fellowship's primary concern must always be that of Frodo and his burden; you could easily be mortally wounded, or even slain, whilst the others were occupied in defending him."

Merrill shook her head silently, a lump forming in her throat. She felt like a heel for refusing him. This wasn't Legolas – he wasn't demanding she stay. This was Elrond: the person who had, like Radhrion, assumed responsibility for her, cared for her, trained and watched over her all this time, and he asked her to stay, to reconsider HER choice, in fear for HER. He did not make her out to be a liability as Legolas had done, he merely worried for her safety.

Elrond tried once more, his voice more insistent and even kinder. "If you are concerned as to your position here once Radhrion departs, I assure you that it will be much the same. I have offered you a place in my home, and I would not lightly revoke it. I had hoped you would recognize mine and my families' true regard for you, Merrill." He squeezed her hands and reached up to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. "Should you choose to depart with the Fellowship or later on, I wish you to know that, regardless of the outcome of your visit to Lothlorien, Rivendell will always be awaiting your return."

His gaze was too intense, too sincere; she averted her eyes and swiped hastily at her cheeks, staring determinedly into the afternoon sky until she could regain her composure. She already knew what her answer would have to be; her heart ached to return home, no matter how kind he and his family had been to her. She longed for her own family, her own friends, her own world, and no amount of affection could ever keep her here. Even so, Merrill realized the enormous consideration Elrond was showing her by speaking with her this way, and was determined to think over his words, at least. She owed him that much. "I can't promise that my answer will change, but I will consider all you've said." Elrond squeezed her hands once more before releasing them. "And, thank you."

He appeared somewhat perplexed by this. "Whatever for?"

"For… everything. For making a place for me, here, in your home and your family. I have always felt grateful to you, for that, though I don't think I articulated it well."

Elrond's silver eyes looked, just for a moment, like light reflecting off the broken pieces of a mirror; they turned inward, and Merrill could sense he was no longer fully there with her. He was lost and adrift on the tides of memory. When he did speak, his words came slowly and from a long, long way away; his voice was more echo than presence. "It is one of my dearly held beliefs that we must, each of us, pass on what good fortune we have received. My brother and I were once in a position similar, in some respects, to your own. In one way or another, we found ourselves quite alone and in desperate need of a family, of a home. We were shown a… _kindness_ by others, who took us in and raised us, so whenever the opportunity presents itself, I endeavor to do the same."

"You have a brother?"

The parentheses around his lips deepened. "I did. He died the death of mortal men many ages ago."

"I… I don't know what to say." Merrill paused and considered her words. There was nothing she could say to heal that hurt, to soothe that pain. The only words she had were weak to her ears, but she said them, anyway. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Elrond smiled wanly. "Hannon le. It was his choice. Though I wished he had chosen otherwise. But I see him every time I look into my son's faces; we were twins, too, and much like them in our youth." Elrond settled his robes with exacting precision; an excuse, Merrill recognized, to collect himself and change the subject. He plucked and pinched at the folds and fussed with the lay of the fabric before asking briskly, "How have you fared in your archery lessons of late? I was told that a mad elleth had taken over the training fields last night."

"I think I'm getting better, but Nordir isn't betting any gold on me for the moment, and I don't recommend you do, either." She shrugged. "I managed to hit the target thirty times last night, which I counted as a win."

"I also heard you weren't alone. What do you think of the Prince of the Greenwood?"

"Well, we're not going to be braiding each other's hair or talking about boys anytime soon, but I think we will figure out how to avoid killing one another, eventually." Merrill tapped her lips thoughtfully. "With some effort… maybe some monetary incentive of some kind…" She furrowed her brow. "Well," she said with some asperity. "The others will be able to keep us apart, at least. Tell me, has he always been this… this… combative?"

Elrond smoothed a smile away with his hand, but there was humor in his eyes. "I am not sure what you mean; Prince Legolas has been the very picture of the perfect guest whenever he has visited my home. He is much loved by all who meet him for his joyful nature and pure spirit. My sons have long enjoyed his visits to Rivendell. They grow even more mischievous in his presence, if you can believe such a thing."

"Hmmph," Merrill scoffed. "I cannot picture those three getting on, at all. I figured he would like Glorfindel or Nordir, more, if only because they both dislike me."

Elrond's expression dimmed, and his words left his mouth slowly, as though he'd been hoarding them for some time and was loathe to part with a single one. "Merrill, tell me if I overstep myself, but I feel I should warn you against forming an attachment with Legolas. His father has very decided plans for his future, and you are returning to your world. Any such union would end only in despair. I thought a word of caution might be prudent, considering the circumstances."

Merrill held her hands up before her in the universal sign for 'stop'. "No, no, no. You've got it all wrong. We both loathe one another."

Elrond raised one, perfectly sculpted brow in eloquent disbelief.

"No, really. We can't even hold a civil conversation without insulting one another. It's a mutually beneficial sort of vague dislike."

He tapped his lips thoughtfully for a moment. "Have I ever told you of my gift for foresight, Merrill?"

"Lord of the non sequitur, I see," she murmured sarcastically. "To answer your question: no. But I've heard rumblings… Why?"

"Oh, there's no reason at all, I assure you."

Merrill scowled at his profile, certain she was missing the joke, and he held up his hands in surrender. "Truly. It simply came to mind as a possible topic for conversation."

Merrill didn't like the smile flirting about his lips, so she changed the subject. "Do you know where I might find Radhrion? He wanted to introduce me to the Fellowship, and I am already over my time in the infirmary."

"Shouldn't you be making your way down to the training fields, then?"

Merrill coughed what might have been an excuse and rubbed the railing idly with her thumb.

"I see," he said primly, his lips compressing ever so slightly. "Well then it will please you to know that Radhrion is, at this very moment, at the training fields with most of the Fellowship." His quicksilver eyes danced at her frown. "They are demonstrating their combat skills and competing against one another. And, unless I am much mistaken, Legolas awaits you there for your archery lessons."

Merrill's hands stilled. "My what now?"

"He informed me this morning that you requested he assume responsibility as your archery instructor. Was he mistaken?"

"No, he wasn't," she replied curtly, her irritation with the prince bubbling over. "But that doesn't mean he's right, either."

"An interesting dilemma, indeed," Elrond remarked blandly. "I suggest you meet with him and discuss it."

Merrill relented, recognizing a dismissal. "Thank you, my lord."

Elrond waved her away good-naturedly.

Before she had crossed the bridge entirely, she looked back one more time. He stood where she'd left him, leaning heavily against the railing, his gaze searching the horizon absently. She wondered, then, as she made her way to the training fields, why, in times of distraction, he appeared so entrenched in sorrow.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **(1) Flower of Awakening (Lit.). My own invention. :)**

 **Hey, guys. So I have quite a few words written after this, but I'm now trying to figure out the rest of the plot - get it all down in stone -so I might not update every week... might be every week and a half to two weeks. But I'm still working on this, just really want to make sure I do it right. I have had so many awesome ideas for Merrill's story that it's actually difficult to find the appropriate places to stick them in the overarching narrative of LOTR... but I'm working on it - promise. :)**

 **Thanks to WeirdoMayMay, ShannyRox101, leelee202, AmberRose, WickedGreene13, Aralinn, LetsGoKoby, CharNinja LOL, and FromHellWithLove for your wonderful reviews!**

 **SelfReinvented - that is exactly what's happening, which is why they are so antagonistic towards each other. No one likes being pushed into unknown territory, after all. Change sucks. :) Thanks for your review.**

 **And KillerCupcakes - we're definitely on the same wavelength, lol. I've had ideas that tended towards Legs being pushed into a lake... or off a relatively short tree... down a small (ish) cliff... - with Radhrion's gleeful assistance, of course. Thanks for the reviews!**

 **Hope you all had a marvelous (and safe) New Years!**

 **Here's to new beginnings, flights of fancy, and the written word!**

 **All the best ~**

 **Cate**


	16. Chapter 16

ooOoo

The training field absolutely teemed with Elves. Bright colored pennants with various heraldry and gem hued robes dripping with rich embroidery caught her eye, the smell of fresh baked breads and sweet buns permeated the air, and the clanging of weapons and drunken shouts bombarded her ears.

To her right, where the sparring rings could usually be seen, stood a crowd of Elves and Men, alike, cheering and booing and ranting and singing with life. Merrill wormed her way to the front and was shocked to see a woman locked in combat with a burly man. She hadn't seen any young human females since arriving in Rivendell, and was simultaneously overjoyed and miserable at this discovery; it was yet another reminder that she was no longer herself. As if the ears and abs weren't enough.

To the left, great tables sprawled across the grass, white linen cloths flapping in the breeze. They groaned under the weight of pasties, palm-sized fruit pies, sweet buns, fresh cut vegetables, and even legs of roasted meat. Merrill's mouth watered at the last – meat! – and she practically dove on them. The leg was small, more akin to a chicken than a turkey, with crisp, roasted skin. Steam still rose off it. She tore into it viciously, and, just as vigorously, spat it out onto the ground, retching uncontrollably. Her stomach rebelled at the taste; her mouth watered with nausea. Merrill snatched a twilsey water off the next table and rinsed her mouth out three times before she got her stomach under control. The faintest taste of meat lingered on her tongue, but it wasn't meat like she had known it. This wasn't Korean barbecue or Filet mignon – there was nothing good about it. It tasted of decay. It was death warmed over.

"Excuse me," Merrill said to the elf behind the counter. "I think there's something wrong with the meat. It might have gone bad."

The elf's mouth twisted at the corners. "All meat tastes that way." He addressed a barrel-chested man with dirty blond, shoulder length hair and a scar across his cheek, "How is the meat, Sir Geralt? Cooked well?"

Geralt took a bite and chewed thoughtfully before replying, "It is cooked well, Master Elf, I thank you."

As Geralt returned to his party, Merrill was left to stare in horror at the other elf. "Are you telling me that our elfyness makes it taste that way?"

His brow furrowed and his mouth turned down at the corners. "I am unsure of your words, but meat tastes that way to most elves, though Silvans seem to quite enjoy it." He edged further down the table to assist others, assiduously avoiding eye contact. This left Merrill standing with a drumstick in one hand, and an empty tankard in the other. Her face was more desolate than a broken window in an abandoned house.

Gingerly, she threw the meat out in a wooden barrel set aside for the purpose. _Great. No more steak until I get home. This is probably the worst thing that has happened to me, yet. I can't believe I ever considered trying to go vegetarian. I was nuts. Mental. Didn't know what I had._

"You are late, probat - Merilinith." Nordir drawled from behind her.

 _So Glorfindel has spoken with him,_ Merrill thought happily, her spirits buoying instantly. G _ood._

Merrill wound her way through the line of people until she came to stand in front of him. "Why are all these elves, here? Is Glorfindel mud wrestling in a bikini or something?"

Nordir grimaced. "Can you, for once, be serious? There is a tourney, of sorts, underway, and I plan on entering. I'm much too busy to deal with your incompetence, today, so there will be no training. Go bother that prince of yours." He made shooing motions with his hands and strolled away.

"For the love of triscuits!" Merrill exclaimed angrily. "He's not mine!"

"Shut yer gob, lassie! Your screech is liable to deafen us all."

Merrill looked around and then down. Gimli grinned up at her. He was looking more comfortable in an armor shirt that reached to his knees and appeared to be entirely comprised of overlapping bronze plates. They put Merrill strongly in mind of fish scales. He wore a helm of slate gray stone carved with golden runes along the brim, and an axe nearly taller than he towered over him, hilted on his back. Two hand-axes swung from his hips, gray and glinting in the early afternoon light. The leather hand wraps around the bottoms of each haft shone with a fresh oiling.

"Gimli! What are you wearing? And where in the heck have you been?"

He took her gently by the elbow and began to steer her further into the crowd. This close she could smell him; the scent of pipe tobacco lingered around him, as did the smell of beer. "My armor? It's scale armor: easy to get on in a hurry, but not the best in close quarters battle. Scale is decent for skirmishes, but mostly used for horse armor, these days. And I was about to ask you the same thing – Oye! Budge up, you blessed witless, bleat brains!" Gimli directed this to a group of Elves in their path. "Runty, spindly, pointy-eared bratlings." He glanced up at Merrill and cupped a hand to his mouth to, she assumed, keep his voice from carrying. If so, his efforts were in vain. "If we weren't surrounded by these-" He waved at the surrounding elves, who stared down their noses at him. "-Veslingrs, I would curse them in Dwarvish."

"What does _Veslingrs_ mean?" she asked as she sidestepped the group.

Gimli harrumphed, but she could tell her interest pleased him. "Hmmm… I suppose it canna hurt any. It means something like, 'weak bastards' or 'puny wretches' in the language of my kin."

"That was milder than I was expecting, Gimli. You're gonna have to do better than that if you want to impress me."

Gimli opened his mouth to reply, but squeals of laughter interrupted him.

Merrill's head swiveled, trying to locate the source of the noise. "Who was that?"

The dwarf's shoulders slumped. "You'll find out soon enough, lassie. They're just ahead, the väikesed kuradid. The Ranger wants to teach them to defend themselves." (1)

As they emerged from behind yet another grouping of Elves, Merrill's eyes fell upon two, sandy-haired hobbits slashing enthusiastically at one another with daggers that looked like swords in their small hands. Behind them stood a tall, brown haired man with a surly expression. His strong jaw bore the slightest hint of stubble, and his dark hair just brushed his shoulders. He wore leather arm guards, a sturdy, crimson wool tunic, charcoal colored breeches, and serviceable leather boots that had definitely seen better days. A battered, black scabbard and two daggers hung from his waist. They appeared well-used and well cared for.

Aragorn stood beside him, back in his dusty, travel worn ranger gear of grey wool tunic and breeches. He faded beside the taller man, but Merrill expected that had something to do with the nature of his life; to battle darkness, he had become shadow. Even in the movie at Bree, he had melted seamlessly into the background. All that could be seen of him were two eyes glowing like embers beneath his hood.

Aragorn gestured to the Hobbits and said something to the other man, whose jaw twitched.

"Ranger! Where is my father's friend?" Gimli boomed and Merrill flinched; her ears were becoming quite sensitive.

"Radhrion is over there." He pointed towards the archery lanes with a hand littered with the silver remains of scars. "He and Legolas are working with Sam to determine if he has an aptitude with a bow." Aragorn's gray eyes flickered to Merrill. She was being measured, she knew; weighed and assessed for value and flaws. Going by his expression, she had been found wanting. A frown creased his brow and he removed the short-stemmed pipe from his lips before inquiring politely, "Do you have a moment, Merrill?"

Merrill's heart dove into her stomach. He knew. He knew, and he didn't want her to come. There was no other reason that he'd want to talk to her. They weren't friends, barely acquaintances, and had nothing in common. Nothing in common, that is, except a certain elf. Had Elrond told him _everything_ about her? She didn't think he would…

Steeling herself for yet another bout of well-intended, but exceedingly tiresome, warnings, she patted Gimli on the back and gave Aragorn a gallows' smile. "Why not?"

Aragorn asked Boromir to continue working with the Hobbits and then set off down the path and into the woods without even glancing back to make sure she followed.

The trees had donned their autumn best. Gold and copper leaves broke free from their moorings and fluttered playfully in the breeze above their heads.

Merrill struggled to keep up with his long stride. She puffed a little as time wore on, but he did not appear to notice; in fact, Aragorn seemed quite lost in his own world. Merrill decided it was time to wake him up.

"As nice as strolling in silence with a relative stranger is, why don't we just cut to the chase, hmm? I don't need a scenic waterfall or a melancholic stream in the background while you tell me all of the reasons I shouldn't join the quest. In fact, if ambience is what you are trying to achieve, here, I'd be much more appreciative of something a little more culinary. Why don't we move this powwow to the kitchens? There is nothing like an apple pie with cheese baked into the crust to relieve tension and encourage understanding."

Aragorn stopped. Before him stood a small bridge spanning the width of one of Rivendell's many rivers. He ran his hand over the back of his head sheepishly, a crooked smile on his lips. "It would seem I have grown fairly predictable, though, in my defense, this is a river, not a stream, and one could hardly describe it as melancholic."

Merrill folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against a tree, settling in for the long haul. "It would depend on that person's frame of reference, don't you think? To you, this river might appear mysterious and soothing. To me, it is a stream of judgment and doubt."

"Then it is no wonder you appear ill at ease." He knelt at the water's edge, tracing the surface with his fingertips, his face pensive. After a few heartbeats, his back straightened and his eyes hardened with determination. "I take your point, and will come to my own; I should not wish to distress you any further." Aragorn stood and faced her, linking his hands behind his back, his shoulders stiff. "I would not wish this journey on my worst enemy, and yet you volunteer. While I find your willingness and courage admirable, I must tell you that I have spoken with Elrond about your proficiencies and discovered you have just lately taken up the bow, and have no other weapons skills to your name, nor experience surviving in the wilderness. This quest is not a simple one. Already myself, Legolas, Boromir, and Gimli are tasked with the well-being of four Hobbits, none of whom claims any martial abilities. I do not wish to be unkind, Merrill, but we cannot afford to take on another who is similarly unable to defend themselves, not with what is at stake. Also, I should hate to see any harm come to you, which is more than likely, considering."

Merrill thought hard, stamping down on the hurt his words occasioned; she knew she was crap with a bow, so why did his words sting? _Well, at least he doesn't seem to know about my coming from a different reality… But I have to get home, and I will not stay here without Radhrion. To do that,_ _I need to get to Lothlorien. To get there, I need to convince Aragorn that I can be an asset to the quest. My only asset in this world is my training with Nestadis in healing, and I don't even have a lot of that. It's only been three weeks. No matter how hard she's ridden me, no matter how intense the training, I still do not know enough._ She rubbed her thumbs against the tips of her fingers. There was nothing for it; she would have to ask Nestadis to teach her the Fëa Athae.

To Aragorn, Merrill said in what she hoped was a mature and understanding tone, "I understand your concerns. But, in my defense, I am not as useless as you make me out to be."

Aragorn's eyes softened momentarily, but the expression vanished before Merrill could be certain she'd seen it at all. He held his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "I did not mean to imply-"

"I know, but please wait until I finish." Merrill eyed him until she was sure he would stay quiet, and continued, "It is true that I'm not the best with a bow, but I am training every day, and there has been some improvement. Also, I have some skill with healing. You can ask Nestadis at the House of Healing, if you'd like to confirm. I would not be a burden, at least, not any more than the Hobbits will be, and I'd only journey with you all as far as Lothlorien. I have some business there, as does Radhrion."

Aragorn rested his left hand on the pommel of his sword; it hung from his waist, half concealed by the dark folds of his travel stained cloak. He rubbed at his lips with the other, as though to tenderize the words he wished to say before he said them. "You still cannot come, Merrill." He began to walk past her, but stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. "I suggest you accept Lord Elrond's offer of an escort. They would be better suited to guide you to the Golden Wood. I wish you fair weather and good fortune."

She wanted to tell him just exactly where he could stuff his suggestion, but her words were trapped somewhere between her heart and her throat; they struggled fiercely, silently, like flies on flypaper. The more they struggled, the more they stuck.

 _What am I going to do?_

Merrill pulled her hair over her shoulder and began to worry the end of her braid while her mind rushed from one plan to another. _What can I do to prove myself? I can't force them; that would be a laugh and a half. Little, old me up against a group of actual warriors? Not likely. But I can work with Nestadis. If she says I could be useful, then they might just let me come._

Resolved on her course of action, Merrill raced after Aragorn. When she drew alongside him, she matched his pace and made no attempts to converse, focusing solely on the path before them. With no little amount of effort, she coaxed her face into a state of solid blankness. Aragorn would get nothing from her expression, if she could help it; this was a type of warfare, and she would win. This was ' _The Art of War'_ and ' _The Prince'_ rolled into one; if she didn't play her cards just right, she would fail.

 _I will subdue the enemy without fighting, as Sun Tzu advocates, for that is the true art of war. I will be stone. I am stone. My mind is as smooth as a calm lake; emotions are momentary ripples._ She repeated this internally as she picked her way around tree roots and puddles and considered her plan of attack. _He's a warrior. If I argue, he might view me as immature, which will further cement his idea of me as being child-like and useless. He will respect my maturity if I hold my tongue, and I can work with respect. I can get him to accept me. Step one: Work on healing and archery. Step two: Prove my worth._

When they stepped out and into the clearing, Merrill was surprised to see quite a few others had joined Gimli and the Hobbits. Legolas leaned in close to a tall man with a long, white beard, clearly having a private conversation of some sort. The man wore frayed, gray wool robes, and a tall, pointed blue hat. A long-stemmed pipe curved gracefully from his lips, and blue smoke coiled lovingly around his face like a besotted house cat, shrouding his features from further scrutiny.

In the grass some distance away sat four Hobbits. They were dressed in bright colored vests with gleaming brass buttons and were happily occupied munching on loads of pies, meat, and ale. Laughter floated back to her on the wind, and she caught snatches of light-hearted conversation and song, mostly about their favorite bar, from what she could gather.

Nearest to the hobbits stood the man who had been training Merry and Pippin, earlier. He kept his back to a tree, his spine stiff, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, his chin lifted fractionally higher than comfortable; he spoke to no one. This man had to be Boromir. No one else in the movies had ever managed to be so aloof. But Merrill saw his lips twitch as he listened to the hobbits' chatter, and his dark, gray eyes frequently turned to where Legolas yet conversed. _Maybe not so much aloof as watchful and cautious,_ Merrill amended.

Gimli was a ways off, sparring with a laughing Radhrion. The elf danced about him effortlessly, calling out ways in which he might improve while he scored point after point, touching the dwarf once on the neck, thrice on the ribs, and once on the leg with his sword. Gimli's curses streamed out of his mouth, his breath steaming in the air. As she watched, Radhrion bent almost in half backwards, like he was in a Limbo competition, and avoided Gimli's wild swing only to flip back up and over the dwarf's head to land behind him, his sword resting against his throat.

Merrill, having never seen Radhrion spar before, was impressed. He was just as agile and fluid in his movements as any elf, but, somehow, fiercer. There was an edge to him, an enjoyment of battle, which she had yet to note in any other. From what she had observed, elves fought only in necessity; it was a duty, and a hard one, to take lives, and they did so only when their people, or something good, was threatened. But joy radiated off Radhrion in bursts of light and heat. Merrill smiled to see him smiling. His pain of the previous night hadn't quite ceased to haunt her, and she was glad to see that it had, at least for the moment, ceased to haunt him.

"Aragorn! Edíleg?" Legolas inquired hopefully as they drew close. He ignored Merrill, entirely, which was perfectly fine with her. (2)

Beside her, Aragorn nodded stiffly. "Te teliannen." (3)

The smoke around the man Legolas had spoken to cleared, and Merrill saw twinkling blue eyes beneath the blue wizard's hat. The man could only be Gandalf. He appraised her closely, puffing heavily on his pipe. Without looking away from her, he questioned, "Am man agóreg? Law moe." (4)

"Mithrandir-" Aragorn began in a reasonable tone.

"Tôl hene na, Aragorn. Ennas na naur an dín." Gandalf smiled around his pipe at her, and Merrill was finally able to look away. "You must be Merrill. Elrond has told me much about you. I am Gandalf." (5)

 _So, Elrond told him about my mysterious origins, it would seem. I wonder if that's a good thing or a bad thing?_ Merrill wiped her suddenly sweaty palms down the sides of her breeches and offered him her hand. "It's nice to meet you, errr, Sir?"

"No need for that, Merrill. Gandalf is sufficient." He puffed on his pipe and scrutinized her closely. Merrill shifted uneasily. Apparently, he liked what he saw, because he nodded once approvingly and muttered, "Yes… there is something around the eyes… a certain strength of spirit… You'll do nicely, I think. Óre nia pete nin ketya blaith ambarnēdh silith, Nivrim i-durinthi." (6)

Merrill cleared her throat nervously. "Ummm… thanks, I guess?"

Gandalf took her hand in his own and patted the back of it, the intensity of his gaze guttering like a candle. "Have you met the rest of our little party?"

Merrill shook her head. "I've met these two buckets of fun," she said, jerking her head towards a puzzled Aragorn, and a supremely irritated Legolas. "And I know Radhrion and Gimli, but I have not met any of the others."

"Ah, well we must remedy that. Come." He gained his feet much easier than Merrill had expected, considering his age, and lead her over to the hobbits, who all turned to stare at her curiously. "This is Merrill. Merrill, this is Pippin, Merry, Sam, and Frodo." He gestured to each as he called their name, and they bowed politely. "Merrill is Lord Elrond's ward."

"Merrill's a strange name for an elf." Pippin remarked carelessly. He had pie crumbs stuck to his upper lip, and a small, button of a nose that made him appear puckish.

Merrill stooped down to brush the crumbs from his lips and replied, smiling, "What can I say? We all have our crosses to bear. Yours appears to be an unfortunate propensity to cover yourself in whatever it is you happen to be eating at the time."

Pippin blushed scarlet, and Frodo asked, "I have never before heard such a phrase. What does it mean, to bear a cross?"

 _Oh, shit. Middle Earth hasn't found Jesus… Wait, then who do hobbits pray to? Do they pray? Do any of the races have a religion? A deity?_

"Errr…" She met Gandalf's gaze, which was steady on her face. "Well, it means we all have our burdens to bear… Frodo, is it?" She asked quickly.

"Yes." His large, blue eyes were grave and innocent all at once. A sudden urge to hug him nearly overcame her usual restraint.

The chubby hobbit by his side valiantly stepped into the gulf of silence between them and stuck out his hand. "I'm Sam, miss. And I don't think your name's strange, at all. Does it mean anything?"

"It means ' _Rose_ ' in Sindarin, I think." Frodo offered, his brow twisted with thought. "But I think it depends on the spelling." His earnest eyes flicked up to meet her own. "Or is it short for something else?"

"Rose, eh?" Pippin elbowed Sam, grinning slyly. "Great name, that. Right, Sam?"

Sam shoved him off, cheeks heating, and mumbled a denial.

Merry muttered, "Shut up, Pip." His green eyes flashed to hers and back down to his hands, which held a half-eaten apple.

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder and Radhrion's cheerful voice replied, "How about I give you a hint, Master Baggins? My nickname for her in Elvish is _aew tithen_."

Frodo's face lit with epiphany and he looked more doll-like than ever. His sweet, pink lips tugged up at the corners, and he almost sparkled with excitement. For some reason, this hurt Merrill more than his morose demeanor of before. _God damn that stupid ring._

"Is it Nightingale? Merilinith?"

"Bilbo has taught you well, it would seem. Did he ever tell you who taught him?"

Frodo nodded slowly, realization climbing his face like the first rays of dawn. "It was _you_? You went with him to the Lonely Mountain?"

Merrill inhaled so quickly she choked on her spit. _Radhrion went with Bilbo and the Dwarves to reclaim Erebor?! That certainly wasn't in the movies!_ She glared at him suspiciously.

Radhrion smiled a cat's smile and clapped Merrill on the back. "So he hasn't forgotten me. That is good to know. Do you know where he might be? I should like to see him again."

Frodo told him, but she didn't listen. _What else is this Shrek-like, onion-elf concealing? It's almost as if he has more secrets than I do - and I'm from a bloody different planet!_

She tuned back in just in time to catch Gandalf calling Boromir over.

He came, his steps reluctant, his face still, until he stood beside the wizard at parade rest.

"Boromir, this is Merrill. She is both a ward to Lord Elrond, and a friend to Radhrion. And Merrill, this is Boromir. He is the son of the Steward of Gondor, and a member of our Fellowship."

"It's nice to meet you… Boromir?"

Boromir bowed jerkily, but didn't meet her eyes. "You may call me Boromir, if you wish, My lady."

She batted the hated appellation away. "Please – it's just Merrill."

"My lady Merrill." Boromir batted it back. She sighed.

"If she's a lady, than I'm an elf!"

Merrill glowered at Gimli, who had just joined their group, a leg of meat in either hand. "Thanks ever so much, Gimli," she remarked drily.

"Aedhir edhel, nányë glamog," Legolas said, his lip curling as he glared at the dwarf. (7)

"What did he just call me?!" Gimli's face went tomato red and his fist hovered threateningly over the handle of his axe.

Merrill noticed Frodo squeeze his eyes shut, his hand clutching the neck of his tunic. Gandalf noticed, too.

"No dhínen, Legolas!" Gandalf stepped between them, his eyebrows slanted sharply up at the outer corners, his grey eyes flashing. "We musn't argue amongst ourselves. The enemy feeds on conflict. I will expect you both to put aside your foolish hatreds and work together, in future." (8)

Legolas inclined his head, his hand over his heart. "Goheno nin, Mithrandir." She peered into his face, but could see nothing in his expression but for the tightening of skin around his eyes and the compression of his lips. _Yeah, he might be apologetic for upsetting Gandy, but he sure as hell doesn't give a damn about Gimli._

Gimli grumbled in grudging agreement, but his hand stayed firmly on his axe. _Aaaaand he doesn't care, either. Lovely. It's so easy to forget how much they disliked each other in the beginning._

"Well, now that we have got that out of the way, why don't we join in the competitions?" Radhrion grabbed Aragorn and Gimli and urged them towards the crowd. "You, as well, little men."

"You cannot actually expect us to fight," Merry stated incredulously.

"Hmmm… perhaps not. But there will be some competition in which I can enter you, I am certain. Perhaps a drinking competition with the Dwarves would suit?"

"You are a fine elf, Radhrion. Lead on to the ale!" Pippin linked arms with a considerably more willing Merry and followed behind the others. Even Frodo and Sam had joined them. That left Merrill to walk between Legolas and Boromir, neither of whom would look at, nor speak to, her.

"So… This is nice," she ventured sarcastically. "Just you guys, me, and the brick walls you've built between us. Excellent craftsmanship, as far as imaginary walls go, I mean. Not that I'm any expert in imaginary architecture. Or even normal architecture. Anyway, the weather's nice, isn't it? But I think it'll rain later. What do you guys think?"

Boromir's lips had almost disappeared from his face, but he grunted, "It will rain later."

Legolas sniffed the air delicately, and then held his hand out before him, running his fingers through the currents. "No. There will be rain on the morrow, but none this eve, if I guess correctly."

"You can tell the weather by feeling the air?" Merrill was stupefied, and a little envious. _What other super powers did these elves have?_

"Somewhat," he replied coolly. "Though I am nowhere near as adept as my father. He can predict down to the hour when rain or snow will come."

Merrill thought back to the Hobbit movie; Thranduil, while ridiculously handsome, didn't seem to be particularly gifted, and she had no recollection of his ability to predict weather. "Is that a… common ability amongst elves?"

"You speak as though you are not one, yourself." Boromir scooped a pie off a table as they passed and took a bite, still avoiding eye contact, still blatantly uncomfortable.

"I have noticed your strange way of speaking, as well," Legolas agreed.

 _Quick!_ Merrill's mind screeched. _DEFLECT_. "I read a lot. Is that a good pie? I didn't get the chance to try one, earlier, but they smell incredible."

Boromir shrugged noncommittally, shoving the last of the pie into his mouth and brushing his hands off on his breeches.

Legolas thrust a pie under her nose. She stared at it quizzically, and he grew frustrated and thrust it forward, once more. When she accepted it, he strode on ahead without a word, leaving her to walk with only Boromir for company.

 _He needs a new name. 'Legolas' is far too good for him. Prickly. I'll call him 'Prickly'._

She took a rebellious bite and moaned; apples, cinnamon, and some type of sharp cheese came together to sing the hallelujah chorus on Merrill's taste buds. It was the closest thing she was going to get to junk food in Middle Earth, and she licked the butter off her fingers with relish. Boromir appeared well and truly scandalized.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **100 FOLLOWS, GUYS!**

 **Thanks so much to all of you for your support! Seriously, it keeps me writing even when I hit the brick walls of writer's block.**

 **Now, on to business. A guest asked that I put my translations into the body of the text beside the Sindarin/Dwarvish/Italian or what have you. I considered doing this, but I think the current format helps the reader to understand poor Merrill, who has no idea what these elves are saying most of the time. That being said, if you think it wouldn't clutter things up/confuse things too much, and you are interested in my doing this, let me know in the reviews. If so, we'll road test it next chapter to see if it works.**

 **Best wishes ~**

 ** _(1) Little devils (Estonian). ((Using a mixture of languages as substitutes for Dwarvish, as Tolkien didn't write much down))._**

 ** _(2) Are you finished/Is it done?_**

 ** _(3) It's done._**

 ** _(4) Why did you do that? It isn't necessary._**

 ** _(5) She is coming, Aragorn. There is a fire to her._**

 ** _(6)_ My heart tells me your soul dwells in silver light, Daughter of the West-March.**

 ** _(7)_ _If you're an elf, than I'm an orc._**

 ** _(8) Be silent, Legolas!_**


	17. Chapter 17

**"... it was beautiful in there. We should commemorate it with an oil painting or a severed head or something"**

 **\- Lorelai Gilmore, 'The Gilmore Girls'.**

ooOoo

Most of the Fellowship entered the lists to display their martial prowess. Aragorn fought several opponents, men and elves, and impressed them all with his skill and his humility. When he'd knocked a man to his knees, he did not press his advantage, choosing, instead, to offer him his hand. When he won, he avoided the praise others heaped upon him with alacrity and went to stand with Gimli, who was almost sure to criticize.

Radhrion entered the archery and hand-to-hand combat exhibitions alongside Legolas and many other young hopefuls.

Merrill, who had never been one for watching, or playing, sports, found herself cheering with the best of them, hollering, whistling, and clapping eagerly. At one point, she even tried to encourage a rendition of 'We Will Rock You'. The elves near her shook their heads in either amusement or disbelief, but Gimli matched her enthusiasm, his thick, steel toed boots picking up the beat easily. They both, of course, cheered only for Radhrion.

After the thirty other contestants had bowed out, it came down to Legolas and Radhrion, with Glorfindel to judge. No matter how annoyed she was with him, Legolas was definitely a talented archer; he barely even glanced at the targets before letting loose dozens of arrows, all of which clustered tightly in the center.

Radhrion made a valiant attempt, but, in the end, Glorfindel judged Legolas to have the greater accuracy. He accepted his defeat graciously, and both bowed their heads in acknowledgement of the others' ability, pleased to have met with another equally as skilled.

In the hand-to-hand combat competition, however, an upset occurred: Glorfindel had chosen to participate. This, apparently, was never done, as he was some sort of legendary hero that no other could ever hope to match.

The crowd tittered excitedly. Glorfindel undid the clasp at his throat, and his fine, scarlet cloak fell from his shoulders, revealing gleaming, silver armor, beneath. The sun chose that moment to break through the cloudbank, and its' beams gently alighted on the silken river of his hair, crowning him in a shower of golden light. His eyes burned like twin blue flames on the pale canvas of his face, and a predatory smile stretched lazily across his lips, flexing its' metaphorical claws and revealing blindingly white teeth; that was the face of a creature who would kill you and eat you raw.

She shuddered. How had she survived being rude to such a being? Glorfindel could have killed her with his pinky, if he'd been so inclined. He was fatal, glorious, and too bright to look upon. Merrill squinted and averted her eyes. She finally understood the term 'destroying angel'. Elves were terrible and beautiful. They were magnificence and lethality given form.

The matches could hardly be called so; Glorfindel's opponents fell to his superior speed and agility within moments of entering the roped off arena. He twisted their moves to his advantage and used their weight against them as easily as he breathed. But all could tell he held back; there was no honor, after all, in defeating such opponents. No honor, that is, until Radhrion stepped into the ring.

The crowd grew quiet, the only sounds to be heard came from the humans, who could not remain entirely still like elves could. The pennants hung limply on their poles, not even the barest trace of wind dared to interrupt, and the ranger's over-excited war hounds, beasts bred and trained for war, whined piteously from their places at their master's feet.

"You and me both," Merrill said to a big, brindled beast whimpering nearby.

The tank of a dog raised his head, mournful eyes shining with misgivings.

Radhrion bounced on the balls of his feet, anticipation clear in every line of his body. He removed his rust colored tunic to reveal an undershirt of plain, white linen, shucked his boots, and tied his long, brown hair back into a sloppy bun. The sun picked out the reddish streaks in his hair, and lit his cloud-gray eyes. His smile was softer, more assured, than his opponents, but still there lingered something of the wolf in the way he held his jaw, the soft padding of his bare feet on the packed earth, and the sharp blades of his cheekbones. If Glorfindel would kill you and eat you raw, Radhrion would bleed you slowly and leave your corpse for the crows.

She watched as Glorfindel secured his own hair, taking greater care than Radhrion to ensure every strand was flat to his skull. He removed his armor until he was dressed in an undershirt and breeches, but no boots. His movements were meticulous; not an ounce of energy wasted, even on so simple a task.

 _I'm not gonna have to lever him off the ground with an industrial sized spatula, am I? Glorfy won't go all Call of Duty on his ass… right?_ Merrill scanned the crowd until she noticed Gimli, who stood beside her while he waited for the arms competitions to begin, and sought some reassurance.

"He's going to be alright, isn't he?"

His expression unsettled her; if this had been her world, she would have suspected he'd ingested the herbs the Vikings used to go berserk. Gimli's eyes glinted strangely beneath the stone of his helm. "Aye, lassie. The golden one won't kill him… not unless he loses himself to battle lust." He rubbed his hands together, a maniacal grin surfacing from the great, copper forest of his beard. "Ahhh! We're in fer a real treat. My Da saw Radhrion fight in the Battle of Five Armies. He stood beside the Sons of Durin, his face streaked with muck and gore, and felled every orc and goblin that dared draw near; ye damn near sunk up to yer chest, the earth was so wet with blood around him. My Da said he'd never seen Radhrion's like for battle fury, any day before, or any day since."

Merrill groaned and shook her head. "Oh, man. You really suck at this comforting thing."

The contrary dwarf ignored her, practically vibrating in anticipation.

"Begin!"

The pair circled, eyes sharp on one another's torsos, waiting for the slightest shift or tense of muscle that would indicate forward movement.

"They're sizing each other up – got to learn your opponent's strengths and weaknesses right quick in battle. This is no different." Radhrion swung forward rather precipitously, allowing Glorfindel more than enough time to sidestep. Gimli groaned. "They'll be at it forever, at this rate. Elves – they cannae just get down to business, can they?"

Merrill shook her head, but didn't reply; her attention was entirely absorbed. Their movements were almost too rapid for her to track; Glorfindel lunged, striking Radhrion in the chest twice with an audible 'thud' that made even Gimli cringe in sympathy. But Radhrion wasn't to be counted out so quickly. He ducked under Glorfindel's next swing and hit him hard in the gut, tangling his legs with Glorfindel's own until they both lost their balance and fell. Radhrion, having been prepared for this, leapt to his feet and darted forward, victory in his eyes. He set his foot on Glorfindel's throat.

"Do you concede?" Radhrion crowed.

Glorfindel smirked, then grabbed Radhrion's ankle and heaved. He soared into the crowd while Glorfindel got to his feet, wiping a hand across his slightly swollen lip and grinning in a way that had Merrill searching for the exits.

The men and women cheered and booed as Radhrion reentered the arena. This time, he didn't hold back. He let loose in a flurry of fists, forcing Glorfindel onto the defensive. They traded blow after blow, each blocking with their forearms and each growing increasingly frustrated at the others ability.

Gimli jumped up and down like the ground was on fire, shouting hoarsely: "COME ON, YE BLEEDING PANTYWAISTS! FINISH 'EM OFF!"

Radhrion feinted left, kneeing his opponent in the stomach when he was silly enough to fall for it. Panting, Radhrion danced around him, smiling like mad.

 _He is going to get himself killed, the idiot._

"Come on, old boy! Up you get!" Radhrion offered Glorfindel his hand, but the other elf refused it.

The air grew chill; the sunlight pulsed and gathered around the golden elf's frame. He looked up; his lips clenched, his eyes glowing.

"Ummm… Radhrion? I think it's time to run, now," Merrill suggested, stepping back from the arena. And she wasn't the only one - even Gimli had faltered.

"What in Durin's beard is that mad bastard doing?"

And that was all anyone got to say before the arena flooded with light, blinding everyone in the vicinity. Merrill heard shuffling, a few, meaty sounding thuds, and then nothing.

Blinking the black spots from her eyes, she peered back at the arena; Radhrion was propped up against the fence, his eyes unfocused. A bruise seeped up from under the collar of his shirt, and one fanned out from his right eye. His lips were swollen and split, and his hair was matted with sweat and dirt.

Glorfindel knelt over him, his hands extended, palms resting against Radhrion's chest.

Merrill pushed and shoved her way forward, her heart beating furiously, her vision swimming and flickering red. Gimli stomped along behind her, and behind him, several of his kin, all furious, all with their hands on their axes and oaths on their lips.

An elderly dwarf, his once copper hair and beard threaded with white, intercepted them. "Where do you think yer going, sonny?"

Gimli halted, but his lips firmed in defiance. "Where do ya think, Da? I'm goin' to beat the stuffin' outta that pointy eared hrafnasueltir!"

"Look there, laddie – he's healed 'em up just fine."

Gimli's father was right: Glorfindel had healed Radhrion almost as good as new. The bruises had faded as though they'd healed over the span of six days, and the cuts were gone, entirely.

That didn't mean Merrill didn't still want to kill the golden elf dead. And it appeared Gimli agreed.

"He's a bloody cheat, is what he is! Used some elfy, horseshit magic to win!"

Someone cleared their throat behind them. "When I need someone to defend my honor, I'll be sure to call upon you, my friend. But, as you can see, I am well, and hold no grudge against my opponent for his victory." Radhrion had snuck up on them while they'd argued, and Merrill recognized his tone; he used it whenever he wished to gain control over a situation. He kept his voice smooth, reasonable, and allowed just the slightest undercurrent of perpetual amusement to leak out. No one could stand long in the face of that voice.

Merrill gingerly set her hand on his arm and asked, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I am more than well – I have learned much from Lord Glorfindel, and am honored to have been granted the opportunity. He does not often spar against others for the reasons you've just seen." He ruffled her hair and slung his arm about her shoulders. "Now, come. Nestadis will be frothing at the mouth for the chance to force her vile concoctions and tinctures on me, and I shall not deny her her fun – she is dangerous when bored."

Joking, coaxing, and pleading, by turns, Radhrion and Gloin, both, managed to convince the makeshift Dwarven army to stand down, and they avoided further bloodshed. But the tension between the two races had skyrocketed, and any hope for understanding was lost.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Thanks for the reviews Kaikitty165, leelee202, Jcrxo, and d'elfe! It's always a pleasure to hear what you think.**

 **And d'elfe - Thanks so much for your comment about Aragorn! That's exactly what I was going for because he always came across that way to me. That is, until you earn his respect/trust, then you get to see his singing, thoughtful, hopelessly romantic side, which makes him all the more perfect.  
**

 **Gimli is such a fanboy when it comes to Ronny because he grew up on Gloin's stories of his exploits on the Hobbit quest. I thought it would be nice if there was a bit of a reason for Gimli's interest in Elves.**

 **I'll try to post another chapter later this week in recompense for the brevity of this meager offering. I still have to go through and edit, make sure nothing is contradicting anything, etc., before I post, but I should have more time at the end of this week to do so.**

 **This is a carryover from the previous chapter, but if any of you would be interested in my putting the translations right beside the Elvish/Dwarvish/Italian, etc. in the body of the text, let me know in the comments.**

 **Aaaaaaand... that's it, I think.**

 **Hope you're all doing well, and 'see' you back here sometime this week!**

 **Best wishes ~**


	18. Chapter 18

**"Prejudice is a great time saver. You can form opinions without having to get the facts"**

 **\- E.B. White**

* * *

ooOoo

Things only got worse.

Merrill had taken Radhrion up to see Nestadis, who had rolled her eyes at them both, but set about her work. The problem came about when they were on their way back for the evening meal.

Elves and Dwarves faced each other on the now emptied training grounds. The Dwarves shook their fists and hurled unthinkable insults, while the elves quite literally (and figuratively) spoke down to them. Merrill caught something about Eru having never wanted filthy, little rodents on Arda, and wondered if Eru was the Elven version of God.

The elves sneered, the dwarves jeered, and the humans that had remained behind shifted uncomfortably and spoke of soothing drinks.

In other words, it was a mess.

"Are they still arguing?"

Merrill nodded and Radhrion shook his head mournfully. "There was a time, they say, when Dwarves and Elves were the best of friends. Celebrimbor and Narvi, for example, were as close as could be - brothers in all but blood. But now," he waved his hand at the group before them, "they have been reduced to this. I cannot help but think that this was part of the enemies' plan all along; if we are divided, we are that much easier to conquer, after all. The Elves are leaving these shores; they will not be here to come to the aid of men when their need is most dire. The Dwarves work with no one; they will happily take the coin of men, but will not invite them to their councils or share their confidences or troubles. The enemy, then, has only to conquer the kingdoms of Men, and Middle Earth will fall into shadow and ruin."

A shiver met another shiver on its' way up her spine, and gave birth to a hundred, baby shivers which flowed over her skin like water; his words had all the weight of prophecy. A part of her expected Homer to burst out of the shrubbery, toga askew, to expound upon the ghastly fates of all those who attempt to circumnavigate the will of the gods.

Merrill cursed the universe for setting her smack dab in the midst of the War of the Ring. Couldn't she have landed in some happy, elfy times? Like in Mirkwood, before Thranduil got all obsessive and gloomy – she had a feeling those Silvan elves could party, and, going by the books she had read, she was not far off. Thranduil drank Dorwinion wine like it was going out of style. Half of the time, his kingdom was drunk: at least, in the old days. But no. She had to go trekking into the wilderness with a bunch of stinky men and one, perfectly coiffed elf to destroy Sauron's horcrux, where infection, disease, or impalement would most likely be her doom. Who knows? Maybe all three at once. Merrill didn't think whatever had drop kicked her ass into this mess had much of a preference – just as long as she suffered.

A voice rose above the crowd, gruff and thick with a brogue: Gimli. Another voice met it, swift and bright as silver: Legolas.

Radhrion met her eyes, the same misgivings she felt shining within them. "Oh, no."

"Barn sviksamlegs föður - hver gæti treyst einum eins og þú? Þú og ættingjar þínir eru verri en cowards - þú ert eiðabrúsar; forsworn. Því að þegar fólkið mitt kallaði þig til hjálpar, sneri þú bakinu og lét okkur alla svíta á sviðum meðal hinna dauðu og deyja af fólki okkar - meðal reyk og ösku um það sem eftir var af heimili okkar." (1)

The other Dwarves stomped their feet in agreement, shaking the ground; a veritable bevy of swaying beards and questionable personal hygiene. It was far too war-like; it put her in mind of _Game of Thrones_ , and she was definitely NOT a fan of that comparison.

A stream of Elvish slipped fluidly from Legolas' lips, and Radhrion leaned down and translated: "He says: 'Long have your kin defrauded my kind for their own selfish gains. Your people care for nothing more than gold and gems – they see no beauty in the untouched woods, nor joy in the blue of the sky, nor delight in the singing streams and rushing rivers of our land. Every being but themselves are viewed as lesser. Dwarves would sell their own kin if there were profit to be had! But there will come a day, Gimli, son of Gloin, when Dwarves will realize that they have long been left behind. For those who do not trust gain not the trust of others. Your kind will dwindle into death and obscurity and there will be no one to mourn them, for no friendship had they extended to any outside their kin.'"

Radhrion had barely finished before someone had translated Legolas' words for Gimli to understand, and the clearing exploded, threats flying, axes and bows, alike, out and raised high.

"Getur bláæðin verið tóm, og beinin þín illa! Ég pissar á gröfum forfeðra yðar, heiðurslausir whoreson!" (2)

The blood drained from Radhrion's face; she'd wondered if he could speak Dwarvish, but here was proof. "Dare I ask what he said?"

Radhrion shook his head, and began to shove his way through the crowd. He called over his shoulder, "Maybe when you're older! Now get over here and help me!"

"Me? Why do you think anyone will listen to me?"

"You are the only female present – this lot is comprised entirely of chivalrous males who would rather suffer a glancing wound to the abdomen than subject a lady to a sight such as this. So do as I say and take Legolas away from here; I will do the same for Gimli."

"Hey, wait! Why do I have to take the elf?!"

But Radhrion was already gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Merrill scowled; she would not play the lady card. She would do this her own way. With nary an 'excuse me', she stomped on every foot she came across, shoved her sharp elbows into sides and stomachs, alike, and even pulled hair when it came within her reach.

The results of her rampage included a clear path through the nightmare, and the attention, and anger, of both Elves and Dwarves. The former appeared both indignant and ashamed to have been caught out by her, and the latter's shame only further fueled their anger.

Members of both parties glared daggers at her, but Merrill trudged on, her face a mask of complete unconcern.

The side she had marched through was quiet but for irritated titterings, but Radhrion's side was still in a full blown rage; the dichotomy was dizzying. Silence swaddled her left ear, while sound inundated her right.

She was just about to give up when a flash of silvery blond hair streaked across her vision. Legolas was three feet away, drawn up to his considerable height and sneering down at Gimli, whom Radhrion was attempting to corral.

Gimli popped his head around Radhrion's body, ducking the elf's quick hands in a remarkable display of speed and agility. His face was scarlet, clashing wildly with the copper of his beard, and his fists were held high and clenched. "Ye sarden varlet! Yellowbelly son of a-" Radrhion clamped his hand over Gimli's mouth and began to drag him away. He gave her a meaningful look before he turned the corner out of sight.

 _Fine. Let's just get this over with._

"Hey, Prickly!"

The prince's face blanched noticeably as she came to a stop before him.

"Come on, Prince. Radhrion asked me to get you out of here. It wouldn't be great for your reputation or that of your father if Elrond saw your involvement in this mess." Merrill tugged at his sleeve ineffectually. He didn't budge, just stared down his blade of a nose at her, entirely unimpressed. Grinding her teeth, she tried another tact: "Aragorn wouldn't be too impressed, either. In fact, you'd be reflecting poorly on your people, a people, I hear, who are already seen as lesser than their Sindarin counterparts. You are their prince, surely you can behave better than this?"

Legolas shook her off and stalked into the trees. She was going to let him go, but Radhrion's voice popped into her head and chided her, so, grumbling, she set off after him.

 _I know I've been spending too much time with Radhrion, but this is just absurd – now even my conscience speaks with his voice? Ridiculous._

It was at least ten degrees cooler in the shade. The trees were silent and watchful, the wildlife noisy with industry and life. Traces of his passage amongst the fallen leaves could just barely be picked out; the disturbance of the greenery was minimal – at least, Merrill believed it was. Her erstwhile combat instructor had attempted to teach her how to track. Needless to say, it had gone over about as well as a lead balloon. But she had learned to be more observant of her surroundings and to trust her instincts, and her instincts said that Legolas had passed through and into the clearing beyond.

Having nothing better with which to occupy herself, Merrill began to sing bawdy tavern songs she'd learned at the Renaissance Faire. They were so dirty they'd probably leave the prudish princeling a gibbering mess. That made her happier than it should.

Legolas lounged high up in the tallest tree in the clearing, one leg drawn up near his chest, the other dangling over free air. Merrill gulped; heights and she weren't adversaries, per se, but they weren't besties, either, especially after her most recent experience.

So, rather than attempt to climb up, Merrill settled in a tailor's seat at the base of his tree. Only when she was quite comfortable did she venture, "So… you want to tell me what all that was about?"

"Not particularly," he answered tartly.

"Okay. I guess I'll just have to sit here for a bit, then."

He grunted but said no more.

With nothing better to do, she ran her hands over the grass, the fronds tickling her palms. It really was a lovely place, Rivendell. Even in the wintery woods, there was still the slightest bit of warmth in the earth and the trees. She felt safe here, in the midst of the trees, a feeling she had never noticed much before in her old life. It was almost a sense of kinship; she expected the trees to awaken, peeling back layers of bark to reveal dryads, beneath, all of whom wished for nothing more than her company. Even the dead leaves held vibrations of something like life and affection.

 _Was this how all Elves felt? Somehow protected and cherished by all of the earth? It would go a long way in explaining their absolute surety. If I knew the literal planet was on my side, rooting for my successes and ensuring my safety, I could take on anything._ She glanced up at Legolas. _It's strange… for as much as he enjoys the company of other people, he seems so much more at ease like this, so much more… himself. Whoever that is,_ she thought _. If he sits there for too much longer, he's going to become a tree, himself. I wonder if Tolkien thought of Elves as beings that evolved, somehow, from Dryads? It would explain their obsession with nature; Dryads were nature spirits tasked with the protection of their tree and their forests. I could see Prickly as a Dryad._

"Hey, Prickly?"

A heavy sigh drifted down from above. "What is it now, Merrill?"

She got to her feet and began to scoop leaves into a pile for something to do. "Why do you hate Dwarves so much?"

"As I have said before, they are selfish, cruel beings without a thought to spare for others. Their greed leads them to make unfortunate choices."

"You know," Merrill commented lightly, "Elves are pretty standoffish and cruel from the outside, too. I, myself, have only been shown kindness by Radhrion and Lord Elrond's family. The others have enjoyed belittling me from a distance."

"Perhaps that is only your perception," he suggested mildly. "As one of those other elves, it is you who are standoffish; you make your disinterest in others abundantly clear."

Merrill kicked her leaf pile and replied stubbornly, "What you see is reaction; it is not initial action."

He shrugged. "Perhaps, but I do not believe so."

"Besides," she brushed off her knees and settled her hands on her hips, glaring up. "I could say the same to you. It is your perception of the Dwarves that makes you believe they are all the things you think they are. I bet this is probably the first time you've been in any sort of prolonged contact with them… am I right?"

"I certainly have not spent the hours of my leisure in their company, if that is what you mean."

Merrill switched tactics. "Something you said to Gimli stuck out to me."

He leaned his head back heavily and asked hopelessly, "If I begged you to remain silent, would you consider doing so?"

She pretended to consider this. "Hmmm… Nope, I don't think so."

A heavy exhalation of breath was her only reply.

"Anyway," she forged on, "you said that Gimli and his kind would be forgotten by everyone because they did not trust or extend their hands in friendship and welcome… And, well, isn't that the same for many of your own people?"

Legolas sat bolt upright and leaned down in a way that made her stomach lurch; if he weren't an elf, gravity would have reasserted itself and she'd be left to clean his brains off the forest floor. "Explain," he said tersely.

"From what I know, your own father does not leave his forest, or encourage his people to do so. Your coming here was kind of a fluke, wasn't it? I remember something… You did something that you had to explain to Elrond, right?"

He did not reply.

She fiddled with the hem of her tunic. "My point is that your people do not extend their hands in friendship and welcome, either, and, by your logic, will be just as forgotten as the Dwarves. I think you reacted so strongly to Gimli not only because of your preconceived prejudices about his kind, but also because something about him reminded you of something you hate or fear in yourself or your own kind… That's how that usually works, anyway."

Merrill jumped when he landed in front of her. He folded his limbs to mimic her own tailor's seat, and peered at her intently. "What was the point you wished to make?"

She twisted her fingers together as she considered. "My point is that you might wish to study your beliefs, truly examine them, to see if they are logical or even at all rationally sound. It is my belief that you, like so many others, have fallen into stereotyping in order to lessen threats… If you have rules about who is, or isn't, deemed acceptable, what behaviors are expected or reviled, etc., then you can more quickly determine who is likely to cause you harm… But I must ask: what is it that you and your kind find so threatening? You're all baby-faced Schwarzeneggers from what I've seen."

Legolas rested his head on his hand, eyes unblinking. It was unnerving and Merrill couldn't hold his gaze long. "From your perspective, I have made a set of rules by which I unconsciously judge others to determine their relative level of threat in terms of myself and my kin? And this set of rules might be constructed more from emotion, such as fear, than rational thought? Is this correct?"

"Ten points to Slytherin."

He shook his head. "I am not going to ask."

"Probably for the best," she agreed good-naturedly.

His long fingers stroked the leaves she'd piled. Occasionally, he would pick one up and hold it up to the sky, allowing the late afternoon sunlight to filter through its' stiff shell to reveal the dry veins within. Merrill wondered if he felt the stray traces of heat in them, too.

Sunlight played along the spun silver of his hair, which fell in sheets down his back and draped artfully over his pointed ears, their tips emerging like flowers from the snow.

 _He's not half bad looking when he isn't sneering. And he's definitely better looking than his movie counterpart. Stronger looking, too. His jaw is dramatically slanted, but it is firmer, and more defined. And his chin is sharp, but set. Did he always have that dimple to the left of his lips? Or that widow's peak? His nose is almost too large for his face, and when he looks at me down it, I can't help but think of falcons, but it makes him more approachable, somehow. And those cheekbones – utterly unbelievable; he's a plastic surgeon's nightmare._

"I suppose…" his voice cut across her musings, and Merrill, flustered at the direction her thoughts had taken, fidgeted nervously with a stray leaf and cleared her throat a few times for good measure.

Legolas did not appear to notice her struggle, though, and continued, "Well, there is a degree of merit to what you say. Despite yourself, you have actually made something akin to sense." He looked up from under his lashes. "Though I would appreciate it if you would warn me when next the feeling takes you – I doubt I would survive another such demonstration."

 _Me, warn you? You're the one with the crazy intense stare!_

Aloud, she attempted to change the subject. "I'm almost afraid to point out how well we're getting along right now, but, well, look at us! We have been speaking for over fifteen minutes and we are both in full possession of our limbs, no voices have been raised, and no blood has been drawn. I think this entitles us to a celebratory pie."

Legolas got to his feet and, warily, offered her his hand. "Shall we be inviting Radhrion along, as well?"

Something about his question didn't sit right with her, but Merrill shoved it under her mental rug to consider later; there was pie to be had, after all. She accepted it and allowed him to pull her to her feet. "If you'd like, but I was planning on heading straight for the kitchens."

A cautious smile climbed his face and she hated him a little for the way it sent tingles shooting throughout her body. "Shall we?"

"After you, Prickly."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 ** _(1) Child of a deceitful father - who could trust one such as you? You and your kin are worse than cowards - you are Oath Breakers; forsworn. For when my people called upon you for aid, you turned your backs and left us all to starve in the fields amongst the dead and dying of our people - amongst the smoke and ash of what remained of our home. (Icelandic)._**

 ** _(2) May your vein be empty, and your chisel dull! I piss on the graves of your ancestors, honorless whoreson! (Icelandic)._**

 ** _Thank you LeeLee202, KillerCupcakes, AmberRose, d'elfe, and cherryorpeach for your reviews!_**

 ** _D'elfe - Radhrion's character quite literally just popped onto the page while I was trying to get Merrill to Rivendell. He was SUPPOSED to be kind of a jerk, throw-away character, but the minute I wrote their first dialogue together, he became himself, fully formed in my mind, backstory included. :) Though his name was initially 'Aphedrion'.  
_**

 ** _Cherryorpeach - your review was so kind. Thank you! And no, Aragorn told her no, but Merrill's determined, and so, too, is Radhrion, and I don't see ANYONE gainsaying those two, do you? :)_**

 ** _KillerCupcakes - GLORFYNDOR! Love it! I've taken to calling him 'Glycerin' lol, no idea why, just happens when I don't want to type out 'Glorfindel'._**

 ** _And Leelee202 - There is no sparring between Legs and Ronny, sadly, but just wait - there will be a few moments of physical comedy between those two later on, when Legs and Merrill grow a bit more intimate. ;)_**

 ** _Best wishes and see you back here next week!_**


	19. Chapter 19

**"Curiosity is lying in wait for every secret."**

 **\- Ralph Waldo Emerson**

* * *

ooOoo

"How old are you, exactly, Ronny?"

Radhrion had awoken her before the sun had risen with some harebrained scheme and she had stupidly allowed him to lead her from the warmth of her bed. Thus far, Radhrion had rebuffed Merrill's attempts at conversation, but she was nothing if not stubborn.

His eyes snapped to her face. "Excuse me?"

That day he had chosen to wear a deep green, long sleeved tunic, dark brown woolen breeches, and thick-soled leather boots. His skin was clear, his eyes were bright, and he practically overflowed with energy and exuberance. It set Merrill's teeth on edge.

"I know Elrond is well over 6,000 years old; one of the books he leant me mentioned his parents and his age when his mother and father were forced to abandon he and his brother to save the Silmaril. And I know Glorfindel is… well, he's freaking ancient. Somewhere around 10,000 years old, give or take a few thousand years. Especially if you count his life as having continued once he was returned to Middle Earth from Mandos, which, I think you kind of have to. But you… I have no clue how old you are."

"Hmmm…" He stroked his chin. "To own truth, I do not rightly know. Age is not as important to Elves as it is to humans. We measure time by events… I know I was born in the First Age, if that tells you anything."

"Seriously? So you are probably as old as Elrond. Did you fight in the Last Alliance?"

"Which one was that again?"

Merrill rolled her eyes. "Fought in so many battles that they're all blending together, or what?"

When he met her eyes, her blood froze. "Yes."

She could hear the creak of the ice; she backpedaled. "Did you fight with Dwarves? Or have you always been friendly?"

"May I ask to what these questions tend, exactly, little bird?"

Merrill shrugged. "I just don't know a whole lot about you, which seems… wrong, somehow, you know?"

"And I know very little about you." Radhrion tapped his lips with his index finger. "How about this? You ask one question, and then I am owed one question. Deal?"

"Sure? But what could you possibly want to know about me? I'm only 22 – barely enough life experience to fill a thimble, especially in comparison to Elves, and not exactly interesting. Pretty boring, in fact. My adventures have always remained in the realms of literature. My real life was plodding, dreary, and dull."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Nothing I want to get into, now. Maybe save it up for the journey? I can bore you to tears while we walk. It'll be great."

Radhrion held a door open for her, and said sarcastically, "I can only imagine."

Merrill stopped dead in her tracks. Before her stood a room filled with armored mannequins, kitted out in the finest of Elven armors. There were tables loaded with smaller weapons, daggers, maces, and the like, and the walls had metal frames attached to them, which held thousands of shining, steel swords. Shelves around the perimeter of the room held helmets, leather coifs, and other odds and ends Merrill couldn't name. And in the middle stood Gimli. He nudged a pair of metal boots with the extreme end of his toe and glared with some disgust at everything around him.

"As promised, I have delivered Merrill into your hands." Radhrion pushed her forward gently. "Be sure to instruct her, well. She must have the fundamentals down, at least, if the others are to consider allowing her to accompany us."

Gimli grinned wolfishly. "Aye, by the time you return, the lassie will be able to hold her own for a few minutes, at least. Never fear. You remember that my Da taught Bilbo how to fight while you all journeyed to Erebor, and I've even more time than he, and I'm not being set upon by wargs and the like while trying to do it, either."

"A distinct advantage, indeed."

"Excuse me, but – what?" Merrill started to back away towards the door; if what she thought was happening was happening, she'd prefer to be close to the exit.

Radhrion clamped down on her elbow and steered her back into the room. "Gimli is to teach you the basics of defense in swordplay. I know that you have avoided Nordir's lessons and have chosen only to hone your skill with a bow. But that will not suffice if we are to convince the others that you should be allowed to join us on the quest, and you do still wish to do so, correct?"

Merrill glared miserably, but nodded once.

"Excellent. Work hard, you two. I will expect you to hold your own against me for at least a minute by the time I return." And with that Radhrion swept through the door and out of sight.

"Come, come, lassie. It won't be that bad. I think we should start off by getting to know some of the armor and a few of these…" his lip curled as he glanced around at the armory. "…weapons. You'll learn to care for them before you learn to use them."

Merrill grimaced; he sounded a lot like Nestadis. "Oh, joy. More lessons."

Gimli patted her arm sympathetically. "Life is naught but, lassie. Now this here is what's called a hauberk…"

* * *

ooOoo

Visions of hauberks, two handed swords, greaves, halberds, half pikes, and glaives starred in her dreams that night. In the dream, she was a true elf living peacefully in a shining, white kingdom. She worked a forge alongside a smiling elf with hair as black as ink, who frequently corrected her hold on the hammer and encouraged her to continue.

His voice was deep and sweet; joy ran along the currents of his tone like silver fish flashing along the bottom of a rushing riverbed, leaping into the air, sunlight glinting on their scales, dazzling the eye in a shower of droplets before returning to the crystalline depths below.

Merrill looked up, and up and up, her neck craning until she met his eyes. He towered above her, but in a nonthreatening way. She felt as she did when Sequoias or Redwoods surrounded her: awed, honored, and mystified by their grace and age.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a strange flickering. She peered closer. The background flashed between her garage at home and this unknown forge, but the man stayed the same; hair plaited back from his tanned face, and eyes the color of green leaves dappled in shining sunlight beneath mobile brows.

"Êl tithen."

Merrill blinked and focused on his lips; had he just said that?

"Sevig i veleth nîn, êl tithen."

She rubbed her eyes viciously, and strained to see his face; he was melting into the shadows of her dream-scape, and her heart told her she should not let him go.

"Wait! Where are you going?" She reached out a hand and snatched at him, but her fingers met gossamer strands of air.

He gazed back at her sadly. "Savo amdir – Telin."

"Wait! Who are -"

"No gelin idh raid gîn, a no adel gin i chwest."

She hit the ground with a thud. Merrill unclosed her eyes to see the honey oak of her floor; she was in Rivendell, and she'd fallen out of her bed.

The sun had already risen; its' beams highlighting an assembly of darting dust motes in the air without providing her any warmth.

Merrill rolled onto her back and held her hand out to the ceiling, idly tracing the graceful slopes and angles of the architecture while her mind buzzed with the after effects of her dream.

Who had he been? He'd seemed so familiar, somehow, but she knew she had never met such a being in her life. And why had he called her êl tithen? Radhrion sometimes used such a name, but she had been so incurious as to never have even considered questioning its' meaning.

 _Well, I might as well ask him, now. It's probably just my brain trying to piece together everything that's happened to me since I arrived here. I wish you luck, little brain. I haven't understood a single thing that has happened to me in almost four weeks; if you figure it out, let me know._

Merrill glanced across her room to the glaive Gimli had given her. It was seven feet of oiled teak wood with an eighteen inch curved blade at the tip. The blade, itself was dull, as this was merely a practice glaive. The live weapon, as Gimli had explained battle ready weapons were called, would have a blade of the same length, but it would be sharp and made of the silvery-blue metal that the elves favored in their weaponry. He'd insisted she practice the holds and strike/block positions he'd taught her before she left her rooms in the morning and before she went to sleep at night.

When she had naively mentioned that her afternoons were free, Gimli had cheerily pointed out that her afternoons would be split between Legolas and himself.

Merrill had cursed him out colorfully, in two languages, which Gimli found infinitely amusing.

On top of all that, she still had her work and lessons with Nestadis to occupy her morning hours.

This was worse than finals week at university. At least there she had the option of energy drinks and pizza. The closest thing she had found to junk food in Rivendell had been a fruit pie with a honey and cheese infused crust, and it was probably healthier than anything she had ever eaten of its' kind back home.

The ringing of the bells alerted her to the lateness of the hour. Nestadis would be expecting her in less than thirty minutes!

Merrill struggled free from the blankets that had twisted around her legs in her sleep and rushed to the bathroom to begin her day.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I promised myself that if I got to a certain point in my writing, I would upload another chapter, and I just did. Congratulate me, guys, we're FINALLY out of Rivendell! :D It took a while, but, as I said before, this is gonna be a long 'un. Also, just to clarify, this is a romance, yes, but it's slow burn, and Merrill's relationship with Radhrion will always take precedence - at least, until near the end-ish. So, fair warning, I guess? (I've been getting some PM's asking me to hurry M and L's relationship up, so I figured I'd take a moment and explain myself, here). Hopefully this doesn't alienate too many of you, lol. :) I promise there will be romance between our delightful duds, but only when it feels right that it be so. Tolkien treated love in his stories as something solemn, something sacred, something to be taken with a sacrament, if you will, especially as it concerned elves, so I intend to do the same.**

 **Also, this is a bit of a filler chapter, so I'll try to post another soon.**

 **THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR AWESOME REVIEWS KillerCupcakes, LeeLee202, Convalla91, and xcislyfe22!**

 **xcislyfe22 - Your review made me giddy! Thank you so much! I'm so pleased that you are enjoying** **the more circuitous, less word-for-word route I'm taking with it. I was actually worried that the readers would hate it. Also, *ahem*: PIE, PIE, PIE, PIE, PIE! :D We've got a bit going, here, and I'd hate to lose it, so I'll be sure to find different ways to describe pie and include them in future chapters.**

 **KillerCupcakes - Glorfy, Glycerin, Glorfyndor, Gloucester, Glastonbury (I call him that when I'm writing at three A.M.), and the newest addition... Gary. :) He'd HATE having a human name like that, lol. Oh, and I can't WAIT for you to see what I've done with Glorfindel's story. I think you're really gonna love it. Let's just say that Merrill will not be rid of him so easily, which is unfortunate for her, thinking back on the chapter I just wrote... *gulps* Poor Merrill.**

 **Leelee202 - It's funny, because, reading your review, my first thought was: If Ronny's the voice of reason in the Fellowship, they're all doomed, lol. But no - you're right. He has a good head on his shoulders, something that can be overlooked in favor of his more humorous side. As for your other wish, well... in the words of River Song: "Spoilers!" :)**

 **Convalla91 - I'm so glad to hear how much you love Radhrion! (He's my favorite, too, lol). As for your suggestion, well... *smiles enigmatically* perhaps once I've finished this. Radhrion does have a very interesting story, and I'd enjoy getting to know a younger him... And a few scenes with him and Thrandy would be gold. Hmmm... :D**

 **Oh, and have a look at my profile pic and meet the Legolas that resides in my head. :)  
**

 **Best wishes ~**


	20. Chapter 20

"I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal."

\- Jane Austen

* * *

ooOoo

Two weeks more had passed by in a deluge of practice and pain. She was sore. More sore than she could ever remember being. Even when she'd listened to Anna and joined her for her spinning classes, she hadn't ever been this sore.

Merrill lifted her left hand weakly to rub at her right shoulder. But then her left shoulder twinged, and she attempted the same with her right, only to have the process repeat.

Her butt and calves hurt from the running Legolas forced on her, and her shoulders and arms ached from a combination of tree climbing, push ups, bow practice, and glaive practice.

She also had a killer headache, thanks to Nestadis drilling her on the appearance and properties of the plant life that she might find in the wild when on the quest. Merrill was expected, too, to know how to mix these plants to produce various potions, poutices, tinctures, ointments, balms, concoctions, and tisanes, and for what wounds they would be most useful.

Added to that, a human toddler had bitten her while she'd examined his wounds; he had gotten a little too friendly with what he called a cat, but what his mother had called a porcupine, and his hands had subsequently been filled with spines.

Merrill rubbed bruise balm over the bite; the bugger had bit into the flesh of her forearm and left an imprint of his teeth behind as a memento. The balm took some of the sting off, but not all of it. And that was all Nestadis' fault. The mad healer had proclaimed to all within her realm that Merrill was to create her own remedies (unless mortally injured) and that any caught assisting her, or passing medicines to her, would know the true meaning of a healer's displeasure.

No one had argued Nestadis' edict, and most had taken to avoiding Merrill, too frightened of being caught in her vicinity to risk even the barest hint of conversation.

And so, Merrill was forced to concoct her own bruise balm. She'd crushed and then boiled Willowbark, Mint, Nutmeg, Rosemallow, Sagewort, and Cropleek in a brass cauldron for fifteen minutes, at which point she'd added the sap of the Seregon leaves (a blood red flower similar in appearance to a Gerber daisy) in place of the lard humans would use, and sprinkled in dried red nettle. She had waited another thirty minutes until the mixture was a dark red, then took it off the fire and allowed it to cool before straining it through cheesecloth and pouring it into small, ceramic pots.

Nestadis had inspected it and shrugged, calling it 'passable' for a first attempt. This was high praise coming from the prickly healer, and Merrill had nearly skipped to her rooms to drop the balm off, glowing with pride. That is, until she'd tried it out.

No matter how 'passable' it was, it didn't hold a candle to the kind Elrond made. His balm numbed the area and encouraged rapid circulation. So rapid, in fact, that the bruise was often gone within twelve hours.

Merrill would be lucky if her bruise faded in a week.

 _I need to get better at this_ , she thought dejectedly as she began her daily trek to the training fields. _Aragorn is still unconvinced, though he seems to approve of my efforts, at least._

Three days ago, Merrill had finally managed to block Gimli's strike with her glaive. She had been so excited, she'd dropped the weapon and lunged for the beaming Dwarf, pulling him tightly to her chest and squeezing. When she'd let go, he had stuttered something about silly, mad Elves and took his time righting his helm, which had been knocked askew in her enthusiasm.

Just as she had picked up her discarded glaive, she'd noticed Aragorn watching from the shadowy doorway of the Armory. Legolas stood behind him, and both of their eyes were considering.

That had made her inordinately cheerful.

 _I'm nearly there; just have to keep going. I will go with Radhrion to Lothlorien. I will NOT be left behind. Speaking of, where in the hell is that Elf?_

Radhrion had been gone when she'd gone to him two weeks before to discuss her dream. He had left a note on his bed for her to find:

 _Little bird,_

 _I know you shall be most displeased upon finding this letter. 'Where has that bastard gone, now?' You'll wonder. Well, wonder no more._

 _Rivendell has grown somewhat stuffy, of late, and I found within me a great desire to roam, to be doing, once more. So I have, with Elrond's blessing, gone off after his sons and the orcs they harry in the hopes of providing a useful service and finding some diversion for myself._

 _You aren't to worry, though – I shall be back within two weeks, three at the latest, to regale you with tales of my inimitable bravery and peerless heroics. If there are no trolls to be found, I shall invent them, myself. Every good story needs a scuffle with trolls._

 _But do not think I have forgotten your lessons. I leave you in the capable hands of both Gimli and Legolas, which should cheer you up some, I'm certain. (Don't be too angry – Legolas is an excellent archer and willing to instruct you, so do try to be civil, won't you?)._

 _Do remember to join Elrond for dinner, and make sure to continue practicing with your Glaive; I expect you to disarm me upon my return. Oh! And try not to irritate Nestadis – she is quite put out at your leaving so soon. I always told you she had a heart somewhere under all of those barbs._

 _But enough of this – even now my horse awaits, and the sun beckons me to adventure._

 _Be well until my return, little bird._

 _Radhrion_

Merrill brushed her fingers against her breeches' pocket, where she kept his letter. She'd taken it out several times over the past fourteen days just to reread it; Radhrion was a large part of who she was, now, and his absence unsettled her.

Gimli helped, as did Elrond; just knowing that there were people besides Radhrion who honestly wished her well was comforting.

Gimli invited her to join himself and his kin for every lunch. At first, the others were reserved and suspicious of her company. But once she'd sung them a few bawdy tavern songs, they'd crumbled like feta, welcoming her into their little group with open arms.

They had also introduced her to Dwarvish spirits. Four nights after Radhrion had left, Merrill had stumbled into the House of Healing and curled up unhappily with a ceramic pot, emptying the contents of her stomach so many times throughout the night that she thought she might just die.

The consequence of her daily lunches was a truckload of Dwarvish curses to employ against all who irritated her – Glorfindel, especially, for whom the Dwarvish tongue particularly grated – and an increased alcohol tolerance.

And Elrond would send for her at least twice a week after meals to discuss whatever book of history or poetry he had leant her the previous weekend. They'd spend hours discussing poetry and song, history and language, philosophy and existentialism, until the bells tolled six and Merrill scarpered off to the Houses of Healing for her daily lessons from the ever brusque Nestadis, a little sleepy but, oddly, still functioning.

But Radhrion was… Radhrion. He was her best friend and older brother wrapped into one. And, willing or no, she knew she would miss him until he returned, which annoyed her to no end.

Merrill looked up from her feet and cast her eyes about the field. Legolas awaited her, as usual, in the crown of a large Oak on the edge of the training fields.

At first, she had attempted to avoid his tutelage, and him, by staying overlong with Nestadis. The prickly healer hadn't complained about the extra help, so Merrill had figured her plan was full proof, and had begun to congratulate herself on her deviousness.

But she'd celebrated too soon.

Merrill had called into the waiting room for the next patient, and who had met her but a particularly peeved silver-haired elf? That exam had been fun for no one.

Legolas insisted he was unwell, no matter her protestations to the contrary, and Nestadis berated her when she complained, explaining that it was a healer's job to dig down into the root of every patient's problems.

Enter uncomfortable questions asked by a cherry faced Merrill and answered by a rapidly paling elf prince.

Merrill had broken first and acceded to his demand that she attend her lessons; anything but continue mired in that bog of squirming embarrassment.

Which is how she'd ended up here, now, for the eleventh day in a row. She called up, "I am here, Oh, Great Teacher, to sip from the fount of your knowledge and do as you instruct."

She heard, rather than saw, his frustration; a muffled grimace of a noise issued forth from the branches. "Did you not think that Radhrion had spoken with me before his departure? Continue with this nonsense and you shall run four laps more this afternoon."

Legolas landed nimbly beside her while she frowned. She held her hand out to steady him automatically; their prolonged exposure to one another had eradicated any awkwardness that had existed between them, leaving a sarcastic, antagonistic, and playful sort of mood to fill the void.

"I do solemnly swear to do so no longer, Teacher."

He rolled his cornflower blue eyes to the sky, as though beseeching the assistance of the almighty. "Four laps it is, Merrill. How was your morning with Nestadis?"

They began to amble towards the archery targets, enjoying the crisp, autumn air and the play of the sunlight on the leaves and, though neither would yet admit it, one another's company.

"Well, she has announced to everyone in the Houses of Healing that I am to make my own medicines from now on, unless gravely injured, and to tend to my own wounds. So when I was mauled by a fiendish toddler, I was told to make my own disinfectant and bruise balm." She held her arm up for his inspection, and he took it in his hands, his fingertips hovering over the wound cautiously. "The disinfectant went well enough, but that's not hard to make, at all. Even in the wild, I should be able to do it, as long as I keep a small pot on me. But the balm… well." She lifted her arm a bit in his hold. "As you can see, it's not the best."

Legolas sniffed the balm and then let her arm fall back to her side. "Did you not add any Naurlas? It has remarkable heating properties and encourages circulation." (1)

"Naurlas… Naurlas… Naur is fire, right?"

Legolas nodded encouragingly, and she continued, "And Las is…" She met his eyes, which danced, and nearly laughed, herself. "Las is Leaf, like your name, right?"

"Yes, Merrill. In the Common tongue, I believe it is called 'Cinnamon'."

Merrill pulled her bow from her back and settled the strap of her quiver more comfortably across her chest. Cailiel had not been best pleased when Merrill had torn her shirt that morning. She'd been coerced into sitting for another fitting and found that she had grown three inches, making her 5'10" tall, and her arms and leg muscles had been so far developed that she imagined she could hear the stitches strain. Cailiel had promised to have her quiver strap taken to the manor's tailors upon her return that evening, so, until then, Merrill would have to make do.

She rolled the wood of her bow between her palms, warming the smooth wood as she'd seen Legolas often do, then she strung it and presented it for inspection.

Legolas ran his fingers along the wood and the string, both, searching for some sign of her neglect, she supposed. But he didn't find any. "You have cared for your bow and string, well. Present your arrows, if you would. I would like to see how you fare in crafting them."

Less confidently, Merrill handed over her quiver, shifting from foot to foot. Her fingers still smarted from the glue she had made to attach the arrowheads to the shafts. Besides Legolas's own arrows, hers looked like the clumsy attempts of a three year old.

"Hmmm… can you tell me where you went wrong?"

Merrill huffed through her nose and pushed her curls back out of her face. "I cut corners and didn't nock the ends of the shafts to fit the grooves of the arrowhead… also, I didn't bother with the twine, but only used glue… I imagine that has something to do with it, yes?"

"For a start, yes. But you also did not take the time to bend the sticks you chose for the shaft – these arrows will never hit your target. Here." He offered her his own quiver, his arrows fletched lovingly with red feathers. "Use mine for today. We will stop early and practice making arrows."

She accepted it with reverent hands; Legolas was quite particular about his bow and quiver. He did not lend either lightly, nor had she seen him do so to anyone but Radhrion. So, to make clear she understood the gesture, she twisted her hand over her heart in the way the Elves so seemed to adore, and said quietly, "Thank you, Legolas."

"I, well… yes. You're most welcome." He watched as she settled the strap over her shoulders and then said somewhat accusingly, "You are a constant source of confusion to me, Merrill."

She plucked her bowstring, testing its elasticity and already focusing on the distant target. "Welcome to my world, Legs. Now, instruct me, Great Teacher. Shall I shoot until I run out of arrows? Or are we practicing more precision, today?"

"Do as you wish. I will be focusing on your form."

"Rapid fire, it is," she said, easing her feet apart and lifting an arrow out of her quiver. The crimson of the feathers tickled her palm. She set the arrow and pulled the string back fluidly. One breath, two breaths, three breaths, fire. She loosed, making sure to remove her fingers entirely from the string just as she released. A solid thunk boosted her ego; the arrow had landed just right of dead center. She really had improved under Legolas's watchful eye.

The elf in question nodded for her to continue. "Watch your release – you flinch just as you let the arrow fly, and it's effecting your aim."

She resettled herself with this in mind and took aim.

"Keep your elbow parallel to the ground and release your breath – you're too stiff."

Merrill rolled her eyes but complied. "Is this good enough, Prickly?"

"Yes, and one more lap, I think."

She released. The arrow sliced through the air and came to a shuddering stop in the bullseye. Merrill had finally hit dead center.

"DID YOU SEE THAT?!" Merrill roared, dropping her bow and running circles around a chuckling Legolas. "I FINALLY hit it!"

He tucked his hands behind his back, still smiling, and said, "Yes, you did."

"What's my prize?"

He tilted his head. "Prize? Why do you need a prize?"

She poked him in the side as she passed, skipping in another circle. "Because I do."

"Hmmm… My father gave me something when first I managed to hit the target as an elfling. Perhaps I can give you the same?"

Merrill stopped and held out her hands expectantly.

Legolas placed his hands gently on her shoulders and gazed unflinchingly into her eyes; the grin slid off her face like mud. "Gellon ned i gelir i chent gîn ned i lelig." (1)

"And what does that mean?" she asked a little breathlessly.

"Agóreg vae – It means that you did well." He tucked a curl behind her ear with great care, his fingertips lingering against the side of her cheek, before taking a step back and turning his face away. (2)

Merrill had to remind her stunned lungs to breathe.

She watched him inhale, jaw tight, then forcibly relax his shoulders. When he faced her again, a relaxed smile replaced his odd expression of before.

"Here." He held her bow out to her, and she stared at it dumbly until he wrapped her fingers around it. "Perhaps we should move on to arrows before your lessons with the Dwarf?"

All she could do was nod in reply; everything she considered saying seemed suddenly too commonplace, too trite, to bother with.

As he gathered up his few belongings and gestured for her to follow, what remained of Merrill's brain cells dashed about her mind, screeching incoherently.

 _Was Elrond…? No,_ she scolded herself as he held the door to the Armory open for her. _No, there's no way he was right._

What Merrill forgot, and what the movies failed to show, was that the Lord of Imladris was almost always right.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **(1) I love to see your eyes shine when you laugh. (I).**

 **(2) You did well. (I).**

 **Sooooo... have I mentioned how much I DON'T want to read this article on Free Will and Determinism? Because I seriously don't. Would much rather be pecking away at this story. *sighs***

 **Anyway, here's ANOTHER chapter :D The next one is where things start to get real interesting. We see how Merrill gets along without Radhrion when forced to endure the company of a rather difficult handful of people, and the Fea Athae returns.**


	21. Chapter 21

**"** **Let's dance to joy division,**  
 **And celebrate the irony,**  
 **Everything is going wrong,**  
 **But we're so happy,**  
 **Let's dance to joy division,**  
 **And raise our glass to the ceiling,**  
 **'Cause this could all go so wrong,**  
 **But we're so happy,**  
 **Yeah we're so happy."**

 **\- The Wombats, 'Let's dance to joy division'.**

* * *

ooOoo

Merrill rose at dawn the next day and hefted her glaive into her hands. The solid teak of the staff felt good against her roughened palms as she began her practice steps. Nordir had worked with Gimli to create a pattern dance she could use to practice her strikes (high, middle, low) and blocks, and both had insisted she use them at least twice a day outside of her designated time with Gimli and Nordir, himself.

She had set aside the hour before she was expected by Nestadis in the mornings to practice her blocks, and the hour before midnight to practice her strikes. The callouses littering her hands were a testament to her diligence, as were the toned muscles of her arms and legs. Though she had only trained with these new patterns for a few weeks, Merrill had attained a small level of competence that had pleased Gimli enormously; he chocked it up to his own excellence as her instructor. Privately, Merrill thought it had a lot more to do with the lengthy absence of Radhrion, and her subsequent desire to avoid the anxiety it evoked.

The time he had claimed for his wanderlust was rapidly drawing to a close. When Merrill had questioned Elrond, he had mollified her with warm platitudes that lasted only as long as the next day before she sought him again. In her worry, Merrill had even spoken with Legolas, but he said much the same as Elrond and urged her to focus on her draw.

Gimli's assistance consisted mostly of copious amounts of the paint thinner he called whiskey, and hearty slaps on the back that nearly broke her spine. In the end, all of her new companions were sweet, but ultimately useless.

She spun, slashing up, and then whirled the staff until the steel-shod end faced her imaginary attacker. With three sharp jabs to her foe's thigh muscle, she dodged to the right, allowing her glaive to slip through her hands until the sharp end faced out once more before slicing under her enemies' unarmored armpit. Merrill leapt back, out of reach of the imaginary sword swinging towards her side, and feinted right. She tangled the end of her glaive in her foe's feet until he fell, sprawled out before her, and ended it with a slash to the throat. For a moment, her vision had sharpened so drastically that Merrill could count the individual grain lines in her staff, see the miniscule knicks on the dull steel of her glaive, and watch in horror the thrumming pulse of her blood as it traced up to her fingertips.

She dropped the glaive as though it burned and backed away, closing her eyes resolutely; _you did NOT just see any of that. It's just the adrenaline and your sick, twisted, truly malicious imagination trying to screw with your head. Keep it together, Merrill._

 _Did your imagination invent your freakish growth spurt, too?_ Her mind's 'voice' held hints of exasperation that Merrill chose to ignore.

Merrill barely had to think about her response; she'd reassured herself so many times. _It's the food… and the fresh air, is all. Nothing's polluted and gross here, yet. And there are no freaky chemicals in the milk here, either. That's all this is, so stop being a shit._

The gusty internal sigh was both her own, and that of the more rational part of her. It took true talent to alienate yourself from yourself, a talent, it appeared, she had in spades.

Merrill's breath came heavy, but not nearly as heavy as it once had; she had found her wind, as Gimli would say. She would focus on that; she had done well for a Human or an Elf. Merrill inhaled purposefully through her nose, paying close attention to the way the air felt as it filled her lungs; the taut, pulling, nearly painful strain against her chest as she took in too much, the rush of relief when she finally released it. Choosing to be pleased with her progress, she eased her feet back together and wiped a hand across her sweaty brow before stowing her glaive and heading for her bath.

She sunk into the warm water with a groan, tilting her head back against the lip of the copper tub and allowing her mind to drift.

42 days she had been in Middle Earth; 42 days since she had been home, since she had seen Anna, or Howard, her mom, or even her crazy dentist. It had been six weeks of torture. In the mornings, she allowed Nestadis to play kickball with her poor, muddled brain, willingly ingesting the results of her alchemical labor in the hopes that one might turn her invisible or, barring that, end her agony, and in the afternoons, she allowed Legolas to trounce her at the bow. Then came the time of day where she encouraged Gimli and Nordir to beat her mistakes out of her with axe and staff, respectively. Added to all of this, it had been 6 weeks of unchecked change; her body had grown several inches until the top of her head reached just under Legolas's chin, and her eyesight, and reflexes, now bordered on the mythical.

Gimli had grumbled about this development right alongside her; she was now of a height to use his head as an elbow rest, should the fancy strike her. To be clear, it had, but then, so had Gimli. He had several, nasty ways of discouraging such whimsical notions, and Merrill, for all her faults, was a fast learner, and managed to come out of the attempt with a stinging backside (from where he'd thrown her), and bruised pride (she'd landed in a fresh horse pat, to Nordir's glee).

Noises in the outer room alerted her to Cailiel's presence. With great reluctance, she heaved her bruised body out of the tub and set about getting dressed.

Her hands trembled as she pulled on her breeches; today she would learn the Fëa Athae, and the very thought of using her soul, a portion of her body that she had never been certain actually existed, to heal others filled her with both elation and dread.

Nestadis had finally agreed to Merrill's pleas when Elrond had intervened on her behalf. Never one to be outdone or outplayed, she acquiesced readily, so readily, in fact, that both Elrond and Merrill had been plagued by the nagging suspicion that their victory was pyrrhic; they had won the battle, but lost the war.

It turned out that their suspicions were correct. Nestadis insisted Elrond join her and, when he made no objection, demanded he bring Glorfindel along, also. They all, she had smirked, employed the Fëa Athae in different ways, and to provide her pupil with such demonstrations was of the utmost importance to her instruction and academic growth.

Merrill hadn't been there to see Glorfindel's reaction, but Nordir had blithely hinted it had been one meteor strike short of apocalypse. She and the Golden-Haired Godling had yet to see eye to eye on anything, and did all within their power to avoid one another. Unfortunately, they were not always successful. Elrond often invited Glorfindel to join his private family dinners (dinners that Glorfindel had attended regularly until Merrill's arrival) and encouraged them both to work together in regards to Merrill's training. Both she and Glorfy had worked out a system of absences from these dinners with their eyes, and it had worked out thus far, though Elrond did not bother to hide his obvious disappointment in them both. But now they would be together for prolonged, intense, periods of time, and he would be her instructor.

Merrill found this idea easier to choke down than she would have, previously; in this hellscape of a world, what could go wrong, would go wrong, especially if she was involved. It was Murphy's Law of Merrills, and it freaking sucked.

Her boots on, her hair pulled back off her face with a headband she'd asked Cailiel to make, Merrill headed to the bathroom to perform one last necessary office; she had to brush her teeth. Never before had Merrill missed her toothbrush in her old life; if she forgot to pack it, she'd just nip to the nearest convenience store and buy another. In Middle Earth, however, there was no local convenience store, there were only craftspeople, and she had had absolutely zero luck in explaining what a real toothbrush was to them. Instead, Cailiel had supplied her with a stash of bark to chew on, and then a minty tea that tasted similar to mouthwash to swish with.

When she'd complained, Cailiel had explained that even the humans barely did this much, and that elves' teeth did not rot or decay. The only reason they performed this strange tooth cleaning ritual was to freshen their already sweet-smelling breath.

 _Elves._ Merrill's inner voice was beginning to take on the faintest of Dwarven brogues; she'd have to tell Gimli - he'd be ecstatic.

The bark was thick on her tongue. Merrill turned her attention to mashing it against her gums and teeth until she could barely stand it, then spit it out and rinsed with the Middle Earth Listerine. It tingled pleasantly on her taste buds, and, when she'd finally spat it out, she could have sworn her breath was cooler than the crisp mountain air outside her room.

That done, Merrill waved goodbye to Cailiel and sped off towards the House of Healing.

The morning light blinded her momentarily. Spots danced in her vision, but, when they cleared, Merrill felt her soul lift. Overnight, the earth had donned a sleek and sparkling coat of snow. Icicles glittered like diamonds from off the eaves, and even the needles of the trees, themselves, bore an icy shell.

She had never seen anything more beautiful.

Merrill whooped with glee and flew across the bridge, startling several birds into flight and distressing passing elves with the intensity of her joy at so early an hour. But she hardly noticed; the world gleamed in her sight. It glowed, and shone, and burned with life and ineffable happiness, and it all made her head spin like mad.

Something inexpressible urged her to run, to push her limits, to dash wildly through the forests and the halls, just to feel how deeply interconnected her life and body were to the earth; to the undeniable pull of the seasons. Merrill wanted to feel the icy fingers of the wind poking and prodding at her exposed arms and neck, slapping her face, rifling through her hair; she wanted to climb into the trees to catch the first snowflake on her tongue, and sing of the sweetness of life to the birds.

Instead, she compromised and streaked down the hallway to the House of Healing, jumping up to touch the tops of every archway she passed, and beaming at everything and nothing, intent on sharing the lightness in her heart.

Merrill booted the door to Nestadis' office open and swung the nearest elf into an ungainly dance and twirled and lunged and jigged until her partner physically stopped her. Which, of course, was when she saw the person she'd grabbed: Aragorn.

The wiry ranger bowed his head, but did not acknowledge her presence, otherwise. He turned rather hastily and began a hushed conversation with Glorfindel, who sneered in her general direction.

Her high spirits deflated instantaneously. If she could have wished herself invisible, she would have done so. Merrill had worked her fingers bloody (literally) to impress Aragorn, and if he reconsidered his opinion of her, now, for this, she couldn't be responsible for her reaction.

As it did not appear either Aragorn or Glorfindel planned to stop speaking anytime soon, Merrill chose to hover awkwardly beside the door until Nestadis arrived. The healer was a hard elf, that was a given, with a tongue sharper than barbed wire, but Merrill suspected that Nestadis truly cared for her, and it would be nice to have someone on her side for her lessons.

Sounds from down the hall pricked at her ears. Merrill honed in, closing her eyes, until she could make out two sets of footfalls, two sets of breathing, and two separate voices; one male, one female. She could tell those voices, anywhere.

Elrond entered the room, a fawn colored rabbit in his arms, and Nestadis followed behind him, a wooden bucket in one hand, and a sickly looking plant in the other. A healer in apprentice green robes trailed behind them, a dozing cat held securely in his arms.

Glorfindel and Aragorn greeted the pair while Merrill stared quizzically into Nestadis' bucket; two, large, fan-tailed red and white fish stared back, glubbing pathetically. Both listed to the side, and both had some sort of white film growing over their eyes.

"Good morning, Merrill, my dear," Elrond said warmly. "How the winter air does suit you."

Merrill cocked her head at him and gestured to his burden, completely skipping over his words. "What's with the assorted plant and wildlife? I thought I was learning the Fëa Athae?"

Elrond blinked and then waved his hand over the collection. "These _are_ your patients. Until you have attained a certain level of proficiency in spirit healing, you will practice on the local flora and fauna in need of aid." The rabbit in his arms shifted, and he stroked its' ears soothingly. "This is Tuilin, the most beloved companion of a young elfling of whom I am particularly fond. She is lethargic and has no appetite. Our healers have not been able to encourage her into activity with any of their physical remedies, which makes her the perfect candidate for your first attempts at spirit healing."

"This here is Fish 1," Nestadis said matter-of-factly, pointing into her bucket at the fish on the left. "And this one is Fish 2. Some sort of fungus has begun to grow on their scales, as well as their eyes, and they, too, have no appetite. Though I cannot claim any personal history with them, I can say that their ancestors have long lived in the fountains of Imladris, and I should hate to see them perish."

Merrill eyed them both, casting a cursory glance at the sleeping cat the apprentice healer had left on a chair. Then she turned her gaze back to Aragorn and Glorfindel and said sarcastically, "And what of these two? Have they lost their appetites, also?"

Glorfindel murmured something in Elvish which caused Elrond to frown.

"No, Merrill. Aragorn is here to furnish you with his own expertise in healing, though he does not use the Fëa Athae. He does use something similar, and Nestadis thought it wise to include him in your studies. And Glorfindel has a natural affinity for the Fëa Athae, though he only uses it in direst need."

"Yes," Glorfindel drawled from where he leant against Nestadis' desk. "Which is why I was somewhat shocked to be invited to participate in such an endeavor. I was never properly trained, after all, and it appears to me that Merrill has quite the surplus of willing and able tutors; my absence would hardly be noticed, for my presence is superfluous."

Aragorn nodded, arms held behind his back, gray eyes grave. "I, too, am at a loss as to understand why my presence has been requested. I am incapable of utilizing the Fëa Athae for the obvious reason that I am not Elven kind, and my particular abilities are… well, only applicable to those who share aspects of my background… As far as we know, Merrill is NOT of royal blood, or am I mistaken?"

Elrond straightened, his chin lifting just an inch or two to suggest lordly hauteur, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fluffy bunny dozing peacefully in his arms. "I am truly pleased to witness the concern you have demonstrated as regards Merrill's studies, but I do believe you both suffer from an excess of humility. We cannot do without your wisdom in these matters, though we are deeply touched by your diligence, modesty, and thoughtfulness. Truly, there is no one I would rather have asked to assist me in this matter than the both of you:" Elrond addressed Aragorn directly. "You, my ward, or dare I say my son, whom I raised, and taught, myself with great attention and care, and you-" His sharp, silver-eyed gaze turned on Glorfindel, who appeared as though he were sucking on lemons. "You, my most trusted of advisors, my confidante, my brother-in-arms – how could I ever do without you?"

The room was silent but for Nestadis' wicked titterings of ill-concealed amusement.

 _Well, damn_ , Merrill thought, impressed with Elrond's masterful manipulation. _He's worse than my grandpa and my mother, combined, and they are very good. I would hate to be on the receiving end of his displeasure. I guess I know why Arwen is so good at defusing tense situations; she learned from the best._

Elrond awaited their response, calmly petting Tuilin's fur and smiling pleasantly. But the weight of that smile could crush stone, which was why it came as no surprise to her that it was Aragorn who cracked first.

His voice metaphorically bowed in obeisance to Elrond's masterful move, "Of course, my lord. I would be happy to lend you my aid."

All eyes turned to Glorfindel, whose face had become a battleground between his reluctance and his duty. Merrill knew before he spoke which would win.

"I, too, will aid you in whatever way I am able, mellon nin, as you well know," he replied reproachfully.

Elrond clapped his hands together happily. "Excellent! Before we begin, Nestadis wishes to brief each of us on our role in Merrill's studies. As I have already heard from her, I will begin working with Merrill on Tuilin. Come and collect us from the Healing garden when it is the next tutor's turn." He placed one hand on Merrill's shoulder and steered her gently from the room.

When they were halfway down the hall, Merrill asked, "… Why did you bother with all that? I would have been fine with just you and Nestadis to teach me."

They emerged from the hall and stepped down into the Healing gardens, which made up the center of the House of Healing. Every door that came off the gardens lead to a separate section, and the herbs grown, therein, were utilized often in the making of various poultices, teas, and balms.

Merrill noted the braziers burning in the corners and felt warm down to her toes; Nestadis had pointed out that Elves didn't feel the cold or heat as keenly as humans and, therefore, did not need, nor desire, braziers, and Merrill filled in the rest on her own. Elrond had specifically requested they be brought in and lit with her quasi-human nature in mind so she would not catch cold.

Elrond gestured to a bench set picturesquely between two holly bushes and Merrill took her seat, some of the joy of the day returning in the knowledge that her comfort was someone's concern.

"Yes, I imagine you would have done fairly well under mine and Nestadis' tutelage, but fairly well is not what I should wish for you, especially when so much depends on your skills." He raised one, fine brow knowingly, and Merrill ducked her head. "Do not fret, Merrill; I am not angry with you, nor disappointed. Only worried. I did not expect you to take my advice considering your joining the Fellowship, though I did hope. It is so rare an occurrence that I daresay I should have fainted from shock had you actually accepted my counsel." His brow furled and his gaze stretched back into what seemed to her to be a long list of regrets. With a mournful shake of his dark head, he reemerged in the present and continued, "But what is done is done; I believe I was answering your question. To put it simply, you must not only be prepared, you must be resplendent. I wish you to have as many avenues open to you, as many methods at your fingertips, as possible, before you depart my home; you will need them all."

Merrill shuddered at the surety of his words and recalled his quip about foresight with some apprehension. Tentatively, she asked, "And you know this how, exactly? That my education need be so thorough, I mean?"

He met her eyes, his own silver having gone darker than lead. "I have seen pieces – possible paths to the future, and muddled thorough ways to the past. Your fate is tangled, Merrill. It lays now stretched between two worlds, and I see you at the center, struggling between what was and what could be. I would stop you if I could, but I have seen many such situations play out in the long years of my life, and I would be a fool to believe that I might, just this once, affect the outcome in a way that was at all pleasing to myself or others. Ultimately, my dear, you have made your choice, and all that remains is to ensure that you are prepared for the long dark of the road ahead." He handed her Tuilin, the lines around his face deepening. "That being said, let us begin. We haven't much time."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Up next, training session with Glorfy (You can imagine how fun THAT'S going to be), a reunion, and some info on Merrill, herself.**

 **Major thanks, as always, to everyone who followed, favorited, or reviewed - you all make me so happy, you've no idea.**

 **Thank you so, so, SO much to:**

 **KillerCupcakes - I have PLANS for the party in Edoras, let me tell you, and while they may not involve as many drunken, dwarven shenanigans as you are anticipating (though those will be present), I hope to buy you off with some serious DRAMA. :) Haven't written to that part, yet, but already have a vague outline of it, and OH BOY! Seriously, the antics these clowns get up to in my head are ridiculous. :)**

 **xcislyfe22 - Thanks for your feedback! And I'm definitely sticking with the slower romance track - it just fits the story better. :) And sorry for no mentions of pie this chapter! I'll make it up to you soon, I promise. ;)**

 **Convall91 - I'm so pleased you liked the dream! There's a lot more going on there then currently meets the eye. And good guess! But no, sadly. Just good friends. Ronny forever! (P.S.: It is SO hard not to just PM you and tell you ALL the things about Ronny! Must. Avoid. Temptation!)**

 **And Nelsanna - YES! This is gonna be hella long and I update fairly regularly, though I might update every two weeks or so until May; I'm in my second semester of grad school and my professors have SERIOUSLY brought their game - this is my second week and already I have two presentations, three papers, and assorted other assignments due next week. *gulps* But I promise I won't abandon Merrill and Ronny - I love them too much. Hope you continue to enjoy!**

 **And, as always,**

 **Best wishes ~**

 **Oh! And Nightingale has been out, now, for 3 months! (... and 2 days, but I couldn't update Monday). *Commences spazzy, happy dance***


	22. Chapter 22

**"Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all."**

 **\- Herman Hesse**

* * *

ooOoo

They worked for hours.

Elrond attempted to explain the base concepts of spirit healing to Merrill, but both soon grew frustrated with her lack of comprehension. He encouraged her to search herself, to ferret out the spark that was her Fëa, but to no avail. No matter how hard she concentrated, how far she pushed herself, Merrill simply could not do as he asked. It didn't help that it all felt a little too hippie for her tastes; Elrond admonished her for her lack of emotional maturity on more than one occasion, and openly questioned her blatant inability to feel anything beyond anger and upset, which, obviously, upset her.

How was she to explain her coping mechanisms to him? Merrill barely understood them, herself. She did know, however, that she hadn't always been this way.

Laura Mabray recounted tales of the past often over the years, and Merrill had found some difficulty in recognizing herself in them. In the stories, Merrill was prone to crying, deeply sensitive, compassionate, and emotionally complex, everything that she felt she was not.

When she'd mentioned this disconnect to her mother, she brushed it aside, but Merrill had come to understand what that meant.

The last day she'd really cried for anyone (before coming to Middle Earth, anyway) was the day she'd found out her father had left.

It was a sunny, autumn day and she'd just come home from her first day in second grade. She remembered this, particularly, because she'd taken her new 'Scooby-Doo' umbrella to school and Miranda Potts had teased her until she'd cried.

When she got home, dragging her umbrella glumly behind her, the front door was wide open and her mother stood in the middle of the entryway, her back to her. The silence was deafening, and the chill fingers of presentiment slithered up her spine. That day she learned the harsh lesson of absence, and how a single, missing piece can create the kind of instability whose echoes are felt for years afterwards, even when unacknowledged – especially then.

So when Elrond pressed her, Merrill fell back on her tried and trusted approach to everything that made her uncomfortable – she made a joke out of it or she got angry. But Elrond reacted to neither; he simply waited.

They sat in silence on that bench for what felt like hours before he sighed, "Merrill… this will not work unless you learn to be open. I only ask that you allow yourself to feel what it is you feel at any given moment."

Merrill scuffed at the dirt with her boot, glaring at the ground. "I feel enough, as is. Plus, it's not as though my being emotionally in tune with myself will help me survive this quest – being numb might actually be a blessing in disguise."

"No, Merrill. You confuse my words; I am not ordering you to act on your feelings, merely to acknowledge them. They are present for a reason – they serve a vital purpose; namely, keeping you alive. In certain situations, I agree, it is more difficult than in others to maintain this balance, but it is necessary, Merrill; you know I would not ask this of you unless I felt so."

The earnestness of his appeal made her want to do as he asked, but years of training, in building up her habits, remained as unyielding as ever. They ended the day in disappointment and frustration.

But as Elrond left, Aragorn entered. His manner brusque, his mouth grim, he spoke long of the energy he felt when he healed using the gifts inherent in his royal blood, but none of it sparked anything within her.

When words failed, Aragorn instructed her to focus on Tuiliel, who remained still as the grave in her sleep, and what she felt for the small creature; what she wished she could do to help her.

Merrill focused on the fluffy bundle in her lap; she wanted her to be healthy, again. She repeated it over and over in her mind: _Get better. Get better_. But nothing worked.

Frustrated at the futility of the exercise, Merrill gave up and allowed her mind to drift. It was warm, and the light from the braziers pulsed steadily in her sight. Her eyes began to close...

Moments later she was shaken awake by Glorfindel, whose expression told her plainly that _he_ would not put up with her nonsense as Aragorn had done.

Merrill's spine stiffened and the last vestiges of sleep fled like shadows before the dawn.

Glorfindel stood to his full height, his glacial eyes pinning her to the bench with the force of their weight. "As you are well aware of the situation, I will not waste my breath belaboring the point. You must learn this if you are to survive. But I shall not weep if you refuse; it is nothing to me whether you choose to accept my instruction or not. Our lessons will take up so little of my time that I have, quite literally, nothing to lose."

Merrill wiped the drool hovering around her lips and growled, "Nothing to lose, eh? Doubtful. I, for one, believe it will be your sanity that goes first."

He grinned wolfishly. "As you said, 'doubtful'. But I shan't linger on this point; I might lose some time if I choose to train you, but you, Merrill, will lose your life if you abstain. Choose wisely. If you decide that you will accept my instruction, I expect you to work diligently – not for my benefit, but for yours. You know where to find me."

Glorfindel was halfway to the door before Merrill squeaked, "Hey! Where are you going?"

"I did not think you prepared to receive my instruction. Are you?" He asked archly, glancing over his shoulder, eyes glinting with challenge.

Merrill scrambled to her feet, clutching Tuiliel tight to her chest. Something in his words had struck her, and suddenly her life became a real and tangible thing. It wasn't a given, it wasn't a right, and she could lose it in a moment. Living in this fictional world, Merrill had forgotten the absolutes of mortality. Perhaps it was his sneering unconcern as he spoke of her death that had done it, but she was wide awake and ready to take another stab at it.

"Yes… Sir." She bit out the last word, clenching her teeth at the feel of it as it grated over her tongue like her tooth cleaning bark.

Glorfindel nodded. "Then we will begin. Come here and sit opposite me." He sank onto the grass with a gracefulness she envied, arranging his long limbs into a tailor's seat before flicking his golden mane over his shoulder.

Merrill did as he asked, clumsily taking her seat and settling Tuiliel in her lap. "Now what?"

"Now you will clear your mind. Meditation is taught to all under my command; a warrior must be aware at all times. One moments inattention might cost you and your company your lives. For you, too, this is true. As a healer, your task is to keep the company in good health. The conditions under which you practice your art will not be ideal; it might be loud, or dangerous, or frightening. You might be wet, and cold, and ill, yourself. You might be ailing and exhausted to the point of death – but none of that will matter. You will not have the luxury of pleading fatigue, or pain, or upset, for there will be others whose very lives depend on your ability. Often, it will be you who is a person's only hope, and, in some cases, last hope. In these instances, a healer, or warrior, must understand themselves, their foibles, their inconsistencies, their weaknesses, so that they might overcome them for the good of all. This," Glorfindel said, leaning forward for emphasis, "is what you must learn. And it is this that I will teach you."

Merrill could do nothing but stare; he glowed, literally glowed, in her sight. Before her sat a leader of armies, a strategist, a warrior, a general, not the bored fusspot of a taskmaster she had come to know. For a moment, and _only_ a moment, she acknowledged his allure.

"You know, when you go all noble like that, I can almost tolerate you."

Glorfindel grimaced. "If that was meant as an attempt at grudging conciliation, then do not bother. I have no interest in friendship, with you or anyone else. Let us return to the task at hand. I want you to breathe in to a count of seven, hold for a count of five, then exhale for a count of seven. Close your eyes and relax." He closed his own eyes and began to inhale before Merrill interrupted him.

"What do you mean that you don't want to be friends with anyone? Aren't you friends with Elrond?"

He didn't even bother to open his eyes. "Yes, and a handful of others. But I see no reason to extend that circle to include anyone else. Now inhale."

Merrill stroked Tuiliel's ears and remarked thoughtfully, "I knew someone like that back home. He'd signed up for the army with a few of his friends and when he came back from active battle, he told me something similar. He didn't want to make any new friends. When I asked him why, he said that he didn't need anyone else, but I knew that he meant he didn't want to lose anyone else; he was minimizing potential damage. Is that what you're doing? Minimizing potential loss?"

Glorfindel noticeably bristled. "What I am doing," he hissed, "is attempting to teach you how to meditate. What I am doing," he repeated, his eyes flying open, "is honoring my friend's wish to aid him by aiding you. What I am doing-" he broke off abruptly, eyes burning holes through her face until she looked away. "I believe I told you to inhale." His voice was deceptively calm, but Merrill had pissed off enough elves to know he meant business. They were remarkably polite, to the point of absurdity, even, until you pushed them too far, at which point their manners grew civil and austere, their tones arctic, and you began to remember that they weren't just the prettier version of humans, but an entirely different species of being more akin to angels than anything else.

She inhaled to a count of seven, eerily reminded of her therapist's instructions for controlling anxiety, held for five, then exhaled for seven. It took her a while to get into the rhythm. Her foot itched, so she stopped to scratch it. Then her shoulders ached, so she rolled them until they loosened. Then Tuiliel fidgeted in her sleep and broke her concentration. One thing after another tore her out of meditation until Glorfindel's clipped voice sliced through the fog of her mind.

"It is as I expected. We will meet here at the sixth bell of the morning, and in your rooms before the evening meal each day. Nestadis has agreed to allow you to attend her lessons after we are finished for the morning. Do not be late; I do so abhor tardiness." He stood to his considerable height and strode purposefully from the room before she could so much as say, 'Thanks'.

 _Gee, I wonder if he's mad at me?_ Merrill thought sarcastically as she got to her own feet and headed back to the infirmary. Nestadis would be waiting for their usual lessons and work in the House of Healing, and she had to find somewhere to deposit Tuiliel.

* * *

ooOoo

She left Tuiliel in a wool lined basket in Nestadis' workroom and headed into the House of Healing, scanning the room for her teacher.

On the way, Merrill sewed up an old man's arm, brewed a dry-eye remedy for a farmer with severe allergies, and led a pregnant woman (teen, really) to the obstetrics ward for a check-up.

After asking several elves, Merrill finally found her teacher ensconced in one of the private rooms, working on…

"Radhrion?!"

The elf in question grimaced and clutched, one-handed, at his ear. "Lovely to see you, too, little bird. You've grown ever more shrill in my absence, I see."

Merrill launched across the room and hugged him hard about the neck, Nestadis grumbling in the background. _He's back! He's back!_ She buried her nose in his dark brown hair and breathed in deeply; he smelled of pine trees, earth, and… blood.

Radhrion chuckled, then groaned. "I missed you, too, êl tithen, but not so tight."

"Oh!" Merrill pulled back, alarmed. "Did I hurt you? Where have you been? **_You_** said two weeks!"

Nestadis cleared her throat, her hands planted firmly on her hips. "What am I to do with the pair of you? It was three weeks, child, not three centuries! Hardly any time at all, and certainly not reason enough to warrant this level of hysteria."

Radhrion pulled Merrill down onto the bed beside him and they both blinked innocently up at Nestadis, who glowered convincingly. If Nestadis were a cat, Merrill would have sworn her tail was twitching in annoyance. "Better, Nesta, dear?"

She threw her hands up and gathered her skirts. "You may finish his stitches, my disobedient apprentice. Be sure to wash up and apply-"

Merrill nodded along with her words and interrupted, "-the disinfectant balm to the bandage, which will both ensure the bandage does not stick, and infection stays out. I know, I know. Thanks, Nesta."

The healer flushed slightly at the appellation, then grumbled about foolish children and stomped out.

"You were right – I think she really likes me," Merrill remarked lightly.

"Aren't I always?"

Merrill punched him in the shoulder.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, rubbing his arm reproachfully. "Whatever did I do to deserve that?"

"That," Merrill emphasized as she stood to gather her supplies, "was for leaving me for three weeks, you jerk. You left me with Legolas, Nordir, and a bevy of drunken, well-meaning dwarves while you gallivanted off into the sunset for Queen and Country… err, well, Lord and… city state? Whatever! My point is you're a lying liar from liarsville."

A smile tugged at his lips, and affection lit his eyes. "I missed you awfully, little grouch. But I have such stories to tell! I even wrote some of them down for you." He leaned across the bed, reaching for a leather satchel, but Merrill slapped his hand away.

"No moving. I have to stitch this wound on your arm. Your stories will still be there later, I assume?" she asked archly.

Radhrion groaned, but sat upright and held obediently still. "I was wrong to stay away so long – I see that, in my absence, Nestadis has even trained you to sound like her."

Merrill scrubbed her hands in a bowl set aside for the purpose before drying them and hunting about for a needle. "One more quip like that, sir, and I will hang you by your thumbs over the well."

He grinned, raising his hands in surrender. "I submit, Merrill, dear. But, tell me – with what have you occupied yourself whilst I was off 'gallivanting'? I wish to hear it all."

Merrill settled his arm across a table cushioned with towels and set her needle to his flesh. The wound was deep and long, but clearly fresh; infection hadn't set in, though the flesh was red and swollen. "What do you think? Archery with Prickly, Glaive practice with dwarven Chuck Norris and Nordir, my healing duties with Nestadis, and now instruction in the Fëa Athae with the Golden Haired Godling, himself, so, you know, basically hell, err… Generic and Nameless Mythical Realm of Punishment for Sinners of All Kinds on Earth."

"Glorfindel – instructing you?" Radhrion asked disbelievingly, barely wincing as Merrill hooked his flesh. "That is not possible. I hate to say it aloud, but he loathes you, dearest."

Merrill rolled her eyes. "Oh, believe me, that fact has been well established. But enough about me. What in the name of sanity have you been doing? And how were you hurt?"

"I? I fought valiantly to protect the borders of this most sacred of 'city states'. I stood alone against fifty, no, ninety foes! Ghastly beasts with drool dripping down razor sharp fangs, feces slathered over their bodies, hair matted with refuse and unconscionable neglect. I slew them all where they stood, taking no wounds to myself, until, lo and behold, there came two – no, six! - mountain trolls, at which point I received this." He lifted his arm a little and Merrill poked him hard in the chest.

"Uh huh, I thought I was going to read your stories, later. Tell me the truth of it, Radhrion."

He sighed defeatedly. "Must you insist on truth? It is utterly lacking in the proper embellishments any great story requires."

Merrill cut her thread and turned to prepare the bandage. "I must."

"Spoilsport," he muttered jokingly, but then he noticeably sobered. "The truth of it is, we were surrounded almost immediately once we had reached the border. A great company of Orcs, two hundred, at the least, were patrolling the boundary." He pushed his hair off his forehead and Merrill saw the gray-ish tinge to his skin. "We fought. We fought, and we fought, and we fought. We fought for so long my arms went numb. We fought for so long, I can't remember doing much else. When we'd killed off the first sortie, another wave arrived, and another, and another. We were forty-five against two-hundred. By the end of it, we were thirty-eight. Our arrival home caused many hearts to break. Never before have the elves of Rivendell lost so great a number to guard duty, and for good reason; they, each of them, were exceptionally well-trained. Glorfindel is most attentive, and his training severe; this news will bring him much grief."

Merrill couldn't help but think of Glorfindel and the conversation they had had only an hour before; Radhrion was right in thinking this news would hurt him. She shook herself and scooped the balm out onto the bandage before carefully placing it against his wound. Radhrion hissed but did not flinch.

That done, Merrill sunk back onto the bed beside him and set her arm about his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Radhrion. I know it won't make you feel a whole lot better, but I'm glad you came back."

Radhrion rested his head on her shoulder, and they sat quietly for a while.

It felt good just sitting there beside him, again. The past three weeks had been emptier than she had realized in his absence.

The afternoon sunlight spiraled indolently through the nearby window to warm their backs, and Radhrion's dark hair soaked up the heat; its warmth seeping into her skin.

The conversations, clinking of medicine bottles, and groans of pain faded, dream-like, into the background, until Merrill could only hear the pleasant _whoosh_ of Radhrion's breath and the distant sound of birdsong.

She felt more peaceful than she had in weeks.

He shifted infinitesimally, drawing Merrill's eyes to his injured arm; blood was already showing through the thick, white bandage.

 _How are we going to get out of here? If that many Orcs are patrolling, now, how can the Fellowship leave Rivendell unseen?_

Merrill stared down at their intertwined fingers, twisting their hands so she could examine the smooth expanse of skin on the back of his own, her eyes tracing the network of blue veins that stood out against the white of his skin.

 _And how in the hell are we going to survive? Radhrion's tough, probably the toughest fighter I've met since coming here, but even the best can get distracted. Even the best can fall._

Her heart clenched at that, and Merrill squeezed his hand a little more tightly. _No, not Radhrion._

After several minutes more had passed, Radhrion said, "I feel it is time I assumed control of your training, my dear. I might have taken the danger a little too lightly, but I shall not do so any longer. You will be prepared, and you will be safe."

"Whatever you say, sensei. You can't be worse than Nordir, at any rate."

Radhrion pulled back and quirked his brow as if to say, _'Oh, really?'_

Merrill shoved him playfully. "That wasn't a challenge!"

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Just when you thought you'd gotten rid of me, I'm back at it with another chapter. *dabs awkwardly* *knocks over lamp* *cat yowls* *in the distance, sirens*  
**

 **'But it's only been two days!' You cry in shock and wonderment, eyes wide, lips parted.**

 **'Tis true,' I reply, nodding my head sagely. 'But you underestimate the lengths to which my avoidant personality will go to dodge working on my presentations!' I hold up my hands for your inspection; they are red, chapped, and wrinkled. 'I deep-cleaned my kitchen and bathroom, tonight, rather than read another research article - clearly, there are no limits to my avoidance.'**

 **You stare in horror. The screen fades to black.**

 ***clears throat***

 **Okay. I just want to clarify that I do LOVE Glorfindel. A lot. He's not a throw-away character for me... he has his own shit going on in the background (seriously - his backstory is pretty deep), but Merrill's a little too wrapped up in her own stuff to notice.** **He WILL be seen outside of Rivendell, so if you don't like their relationship now, well, wait a bit? It's always going to be abrasive/antagonistic - that's just who they are - but it will mellow. :)**

 **Also, I LOVE Aragorn, but he has a TON of his own crap going on, too, and the idea of having to babysit yet another person on this doomed quest of his does NOT endear Merrill to him at ALL. Plus, all the stuff with Arwen and Elrond, his mortality, the fact that it was one of his own line that failed and took the ring... Dude has a LOT on his plate right now, so of course he resents Merrill for being so darn pushy. He, too, will mellow in regards to her - he's a kind guy, and Merrill, for all her many faults, is endearing in an annoying sort of way. Like a toddler whose just learned the word, 'No,' and has taken to shouting it in response to any and all queries - cute, then frustrating, then irritating, then stroke-inducing, then back to cute again.**

 **Anyway, Ronny's back! Traumatized, but back.  
**

 **Thanks for your follows, faves, and reviews! They really do make me feel all warm and squishy. :)**

 **Convalla91 - Funnily enough, there's no 'In your face!' moment, though it does feel like there should be. You'll see in... I think the next chapter (?) the kind of moment she gets with Glorfy. It's pretty crazy, if I do say so myself (and I do). :) Thanks for the review!**

 **Cherryorpeach - I've always been one to reward patience when it is so generously offered; hope you liked the chapter. ;)** **And it sounds like you'd be the perfect candidate for a GIME fic! You'd blind your enemies with the brilliant white of your smile and the crisp smell of your winter-fresh breath. In my imagination, you're wearing a flowing, green cape, and one of those cloth, felt masks with crudely cut out eye holes, standing tall atop a mountain, the breeze dancing in your cape (but not your hair, because you're sensible enough to have bound it securely back), rousing the troops in the fight against plaque! (But seriously - your dentist must adore you).  
**

 **Voided - Poor, poor Merrill. Haldir, upon reflection, is not the kind to take any of her craziness, so their antics together should prove interesting, though I have not written to that point, yet. Something to look forward to for me. :)  
**

 **d'elfe - She won't be sharing her fea with Glorfy... but you're only a short walk from the right track. ;) Good call.**

 **AvidReader - Thanks for the review. In your own words: More, please? :D / ;)**

 **ColdOnePaul - Thanks! Grad school is crushing my spirit, lol. As for Glorfy, well, he'll always be a bit uptight (he has severe PTSD and complicated grief, to boot) but hopefully you'll like his story when it comes out... Currently, his big reveal is in the third book. I may, or may not, change that.**


	23. Chapter 23

**"Well, there is a house in New Orleans**

 **They call the Rising Sun**

 **And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy**

 **And God I know I'm one."**

 **\- The Animals, 'House of the Rising Sun.'**

* * *

ooOoo

She had made many mistakes in her life. Merrill admitted this readily. But her biggest mistake thus far had been leaving her warm nest of blankets that morning, hands down.

If she hadn't answered her door, she wouldn't have spoken to an oddly cheerful Glorfindel, who wouldn't have ordered her to the stables with her bow and her healer's kit and given her a horse to ride. If she hadn't answered her door, she would have slept in more, maybe grabbed some Wakeflower tea, and if she had been able to do either of these things then, perhaps, she might have had the mental capacity and acuity to recognize the warning signs present in Glorfindel's saccharine sweet demeanor. If she just hadn't answered her door, she'd be at breakfast, now, working her way through a mountain of toast and plum preserves while listening to Radhrion joke with the twins.

But, damn her, she had. She'd answered her door. Which was why she was currently pressing pieces of her torn tunic to an elf's bleeding thigh whilst hysterically attempting to recall Nestadis' lessons about healing in an unsterile environment.

Around her, the clearing rang with screams and the sounds of swords. Orcs bellowed, horses shrieked, and Glorfindel called out orders from somewhere in the thick of things. Below her, an injured elf lay, having long ago lost consciousness. And within her, all was chaos.

Glorfindel had informed her they would be moving their meditation lessons into the woods when she'd so stupidly met him in front of the stables, healing kit in hand, but without her bow. When she had questioned why, after three weeks of solid study in Rivendell's gardens as well as her own room, they were moving their location, he'd mentioned something about her lack of concentration before asking if she was ready. At which point he flung her onto a dappled gray horse who appeared just as confused as Merrill at having so inexperienced a rider on her back, and then they had set off into the morning light, a group of twenty guards flanking them, their eyes scanning their surroundings diligently.

Merrill, grumpy with the turn her morning had taken, her stomach rumbling with hunger, closed her eyes for just a moment, the swaying of the horse beneath her lulling her into a fitful doze, when she woke to falling. She hit the dirt, the air stunned from her lungs and her mind frantically attempted to piece together what had happened when she saw them: the contorted, painted faces of a group of Orcs.

An elf who had dismounted and knelt beside her was the first to be struck. A crude, Orcish blade sliced into the side of his thigh before another elf engaged the monster and all hell broke loose.

The injured elf had attempted to protect her, but blood loss did its' work and he soon collapsed into her lap, leaving her trapped in the midst of a sudden battle beneath his weight.

He wouldn't survive much longer unless she could get them somewhere relatively safe. Merrill glanced about the forest, eyes skittering over crashing, coursing, bloody elves and orcs until she found what she was looking for; a large tree with a deep depression between its thick roots. Three quarters of its trunk was surrounded by elves, so they'd be safe if she could just get over there.

Merrill gripped her charge beneath the armpits and heaved; he barely moved.

Terror clawed its way up her back; she might die. She might actually die. And her odds for dying soared significantly if she stayed behind to drag this elf to safety.

For a split second, Merrill considered dropping him and bolting. For just a moment, her hands loosened their hold. But then the elf stirred, opening brown eyes to stare at her in confusion.

"Merrill. What's happening?"

 _Gods damn it all._ She couldn't leave him, now.

"You've been badly injured and you've lost a lot of blood. I need to get us over to that tree so I can look at your wound. Do you think you can stand?"

The elf shook his head and grimaced at the motion, his dark hair whispering against the leaves on the ground. "I cannot. You must go. Take this." Something cold nudged against her hand. "Go."

The sword gleamed silver beneath the blood dripping along its length. Merrill dropped it and scooted away, sweat beading her upper lip, head shaking emphatically. "No. You're coming with me."

He didn't reply.

"You just sit tight, and I'll figure this out." Merrill re-gripped him and tossed her hair out of her eyes. Yes, she was probably about to get stabbed in the back, yes, his death probably didn't matter because this world was fictional (dammit!), but in that moment, it all felt far too real for comfort, and she knew that, even if it turned out that she was right and this world was just a fictional nightmare, her guilt at having left him would consume her for the rest of her days.

"So, still a decision made from fear, but hey, at least it looks brave, right?" She giggled madly and pulled. Her arms strained at his weight and he barely moved; she gritted her teeth and put everything she had into her arms. _You will move. This will work. You will live. We're invisible. No one sees us. No orcs are coming. There's no one sneaking up behind you. Just keep going. Nearly there, nearly there. Please, please, please, just a little longer; let my luck hold out a little longer._

Then she went sprawling for the second time that day. Fire raced up her arm and she screamed. Something hauled her to her feet and crashed into her jaw, sending her back to the ground, stars exploding behind her eyes.

Merrill scrambled away, her jaw throbbing, and finally got a look at her attacker. A bulky, blood-soaked orc leered above her, a naked, black sword in his hand, its' tip dragging along the rocks, screeching in a way that made her teeth hurt.

Then he looked down and her stomach clenched; her charge lay unconscious at his feet. The orc met her eyes, a delighted sneer on his lips, and placed his iron shod foot on the elf's injured leg.

Before Merrill could so much as blink, he stomped down and the elf sat bolt upright and screamed, his leg snapped clean in half.

"No!" Merrill flung herself forward, knocking the monster off balance. They both fell in a tangle of limbs. The orcs dirty nails dug into the wound on her arm and she shrieked, fingernails scrabbling for his eyes.

The orc bellowed and released her just long enough for her to roll away, gasping for breath, vision swimming in and out.

The orc gained his feet slowly, his hands pressed hard to his eyes. Blood trailed down his cheeks.

Wildly, Merrill cast about for a weapon. _Rocks, no. Leaves, no. Branch!_ She swooped down and took it in her hands, the feel of the wood reminding her of her lessons with the glaive.

 _I'm not gonna beat him, but I can hold him off until help comes._

She resettled the wood in her hands just as the orc charged, sidestepping at the last moment and bringing her stick up in the sweep position along his torso. Sadly, without the blade, it didn't do much, and if it hurt, the orc didn't show it; he bared his yellowed fangs and Merrill finally saw the damage she'd done to his eyes; one was a bloody socket, the other was nearly swollen shut and bleeding sluggishly.

The orc charged her again, sword swinging high, and Merrill dodged away, mind scrambling for strategy.

 _What can I do? I can't block his strikes, my branch will break, and hitting him does nothing that I can see._ Merrill tripped but managed to stay upright. _Roots. I can use the roots. Tripping him up won't save me, but it will buy me time. And he'll fall—he's half blind, now._

Merrill navigated herself onto a rocky, uneven path, and added the bait; she screamed and feinted forward. The orc rushed to meet her and fell, sword flying free of his grasp. But she didn't have time to celebrate. He was up and coming at her again more quickly than she had anticipated.

She dodged, ducked, weaved, and, when all else failed, ran. She darted around trees and people until she came across a large boulder, which she tried to keep between herself and the orc. Strangely, she was reminded of games of tag in her childhood, using chairs, couches, and other people as shields to avoid getting tagged out. But this was real. If she got tagged out, it was lights out, forever. She wouldn't have to grudgingly chase after her friends, she would be dead, a dirty sword sunk hilt-deep in her gut.

The orc, however, did not appear to cherish any such childhood memories. He bellowed his frustration, feinting this way and that around the other side of the boulder, growling when she managed to avoid him.

Then two things happened in quick succession: First, the orc and Merrill simultaneously realized that he could vault over the boulder fairly easily, and second, he did.

Merrill didn't have time to do more than turn away before three hundred pounds of muscle and iron ploughed her into the dirt. Her head hit a rock and her vision flickered. Her awareness swam in and out; she felt hands around her throat, her lungs burned, and something sharp and heavy pressed into her spine.

Darkness rushed up to meet her. It was warm and snug, like being wound up tightly in your blankets, and Merrill thought that maybe death wasn't so bad, after all.

Then a release; air. The weight lifted off her back. Coughs tore up her throat and exploded from her mouth. The warmth vanished. She was freezing, she ached, and the worst headache of her life pounded beneath her temples.

The sounds of battle were eerily absent. Merrill couldn't bring herself to open her eyes to find out why.

Something hard was pressed into her hands. "Drink this. A healer is needed. Nîdhion is gravely injured."

Merrill grasped it and clumsily held it to her lips. The berry sweet taste of Miruvor flowed like silk down her throat, easing the rawness and the ache. Warmth blossomed in her chest and she finally unclosed her eyes.

She was propped up against someone's chest. A thick sheet of long, golden hair tickled her cheek.

"You should be able to stand, now. Your injuries are not serious, and I cleaned and bound your arm."

Merrill groaned as she finally recognized the voice: Glorfindel. "What the hell happened? How did those Orcs get the drop on you? How many—" A sickening thought interrupted her, and she lunged forward, hands scrabbling for purchase against the earth, struggling to break free from his arms. "Where is he? Where's the elf I was with? He had a really bad leg wound, but I couldn't bandage it. There was an Orc, and I had to get him away from him. Is he alive?"

With more tenderness than she had ever seen from him, he gathered her to his chest, ignoring her flailing limbs. "Yes, but just. He is the one of whom I was speaking. Now, let us get you standing. You will have to use the Fëa Athae; I haven't the energy to do so." Glorfindel levered her to her feet and carried her, bridal style, to the wounded elf's side. He was still unconscious, but someone had placed a tourniquet above his wound and bound the injury in a green tunic.

"Here he is. Now, center yourself. Meditate, and search for that spark that is your soul and his soul; that flame of life that connects us all."

He lowered her to the ground and wrapped her hands around Nîdhion's cold one. Merrill took a deep breath and closed her eyes, sinking into her meditation with a rapidity that would have surprised her had she not been knocked repeatedly over the head. Who knew? Maybe meditation only worked if you were nursing a concussion.

Glorfindel's voice drifted smoothly over her, melding with her breath, twining with her thoughts. "We are all connected, Merrill. The song that created our world, that created our souls, is as a light within us, you must simply release it. You are calm. You are safe. And you must want nothing more than to heal this young ellon. His life is your life, and your life is his; you are inseparable. The light that binds us all binds you both. In this moment, his light is fading. You must reach out with your own, revive it, awaken it, replenish it. Feel for it within yourself. Feel for it in the ground beneath your knees, the wind above your head. Feel for it in the slumbering trees and the swaying grass. That light is all around you. Take it into yourself. Join it with your own, and then share it."

A cool, rising, flying, floating feeling rose up from her center to the top of her head, leaving a spreading calm like the cool, lapping waves of a gentle sea to flood her. Her limbs grew weightless, and something within her rose relentlessly, pushing up, and up, and up past the confines of her skin, past the confines of her bones, until it burst, leaving a shower of goosebumps to cascade down her living flesh. A chill, blue wave flowed out of her until it covered Nîdhion's body in a sparkling sheath. And then a searing along her thigh, a cut along her cheek, a sharp pain to her gut, a slash to her lip, a blistering pain along her ear, and a steel cold slice from her right shoulder to her left hip all ripped through her until all she could do was scream and scream. She wanted out. This hurt too much. But she couldn't stop it; it continued to spill out of her. She felt it crawl up the pillar of golden light to her left, seep into the blood-soaked earth, and coat each blade of grass. It climbed the trees like ivy, their peaceful forms shivering at its' touch, until everything within thirty yards was saturated.

A roaring that was more than sound crowded in close. It filled her nose, and eyes, and ears with a river of heat; a tendril escaping to wrap firmly around her own heart. The joy dulled her pain – a glittering wave of undiluted bliss swamped her until she knew nothing else; she became the light, and Merrill was no more.

The grass sung in her mind, gleeful, sprawling, spreading. The trees cast off winter's rest and sprung into unrestrained growth. Green voices crowed their victory; Spring, at last! Other voices cried aloud; exclamations of disbelief, and then the light was shaken.

It shrugged it off and continued its progress, sinking further into the earth; it had a job to do. Many were hurt, much needed mending. It would not stop until all was healed.

A mass of gold bloomed across the light's sight, insistent and distracting.

 _This won't do_. The light obdurately concentrated itself, allowing the excess to pool and grow before releasing it in one, massive wave, effectively overwhelming the gold of before.

 _Better_ , it thought smugly, before turning its attention back to the injured.

Something shook it again, and harder. Then something slapped it and Merrill woke up, her cheek smarting.

"… By Varda's stars! Awake, foul girl! Nîdhion is well. He needs no further healing. You may desist. You MUST desist. Damn it all – Merrill, you are going to kill yourself!"

The world spun. Above her, Glorfindel shone, a cloud of tinted, golden rage. Merrill thought about that: _Emotions can't be tinted. They're not hair. I think I might have hit my head a bit too hard._

"Water," she croaked, cringing at the shooting pains that flared within her throat.

A dark hand came from her left, offering a flask, which she took, drinking greedily despite the pain. When it was empty, she set it down and closed her eyes.

Something warm brushed her hair from her face; it smelt of freesias and the cool night air.

"Come," Glorfindel said gently. "You may rest while we ride." Glorfindel scooped her up and made his way towards his sleek, lead gray horse, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

Merrill and Glorfindel both looked curiously at its owner, united in confusion.

"Forgive me, my lord Glorfindel, but I would be honored if you would allow me to assume your place. I owe her much, and your hands should be free in the event we are attacked."

The elf in question had deep brown skin, wide, doe-brown eyes, and long, dark hair.

Glorfindel hefted her up further into his hold, ignoring Merrill's faint squeak of protest, and said coldly, "That will not be necessary."

Suddenly, Merrill struggled to sit up in Glorfindel's arms, reaching out one, quivering hand to touch the stranger's face. "You're alive," she breathed.

The elf beamed, taking her hand in his own and brushing his lips across her knuckles. "That I am. You saved my life, my lady, and that is a debt I shall never be able to repay, though I hope you shall allow me to try."

"I saved you," she mumbled under her breath, eyelids drooping.

Merrill let her hand drop and curled back up into Glorfindel's chest, exhaustion stalking around the edges of her consciousness. His chest was broad and warm and, at that moment, seemed the world's most perfect pillow.

The other elf extended his arms and, after a moment's hesitation, Glorfindel placed her into them, murmuring something into his ear before mounting his own horse and moving to the front of the company.

The elf lifted her onto the bare back of a nervous, brown mare and leapt gracefully behind her, wrapping his arms firmly around her waist and tucking her head onto his shoulder.

"Rest easy, my lady. Our scouts reported no further Orc activity in the area, and we will be in Rivendell in less than an hour."

Merrill nodded mutely, and nuzzled into his neck. "What's your name?" she asked muzzily.

The horse shifted beneath her and they began to move. The elf adjusted his grip before replying feelingly, "Nîdhion. You may call me, 'Nîdhion', my lady."

Even half unconscious, Merrill managed one final protest. "Not a lady. Merrill."

She felt him smile. "You are a lady, though. The Lady of Silver Song; the Lady Nightingale."

"Merrill," she repeated sleepily. "'night, Nîdhion. Sorry I almost left you."

"Rest," he whispered warmly. "I will wake you when we arrive."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I was going to post more, but this seems like a good place to leave you for a bit.**

 **Hope you liked it!**

 **Thanks for the reviews Convalla91 and KillerCupcakes! You keep tricking me into posting more, lol!**


	24. Chapter 24

ooOoo

The dream opened up below her feet and Merrill plummeted into empty space, landing with a thud beside a small campfire. Her body was weightless, and the impact didn't hurt. She waved her hand in front of her face and watched as her five fingers blurred into thirteen. When she stood up, she found she couldn't get any closer to the campfire, nor could she move further away. So she slumped back down onto the ground and took in her surroundings.

The sky was clear and bursting with stars, the moon hid coyly behind gray clouds, silver beams breaking through only to retreat, and all around her foreign trees stood, seeming to guard the campfire around which she sat.

A branch snapped and Merrill finally squinted more closely into the dark opposite her, which is when she noted the presence of two others, hooded and cloaked, bows, quivers, and swords resting beside them in the grass.

Their hoods concealed their faces utterly, the dark of the night swallowing their features, but she could see that both were fair-skinned by the hands they held out to the flames.

"Umm… hi, there?" Merrill asked carefully.

Neither made any motion to indicate they had heard her.

The figure on the left broke the silence. "Do you think we lost them?" The voice was light and feminine, and a little sad.

"For the moment. But I cannot scry them without revealing our location, so I cannot be entirely certain. What I can say is that he knows, or has some idea, about us. He is definitely suspicious, at the least. We must be ever more cautious. You revealed my name in the last village. Perhaps his spies were present?" This voice was male and highly strung; every word had an edge.

The hooded woman threw a branch into the flames and nodded. "It is possible. We must cease to use our names, even in private, and use only those we chose before, Delior. Nothing is safe. Even the birds listen to our speech."

"I know it. And we absolutely cannot be captured, Melben. Time is my enemy, as it is yours, and if any more is lost, I fear—"

The woman put her hand on his arm, and he ceased fidgeting. "I know, my dear. I know. But you must remember what I said this afternoon. Something has changed; a channel is opening. Soon you shall have what you long for most. We must simply hold our courage fast and keep hope."

"How simple you make it sound," he whispered bitterly. "Yet I have spent years in misery, lost, possibly forever, that which I cherish most, and travelled the long roads of this life in despair." The man slumped forward, elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. "Hope becomes more difficult to grasp with each passing day."

Merrill's heart went out to him; he sounded genuinely pained, and she knew how it felt to lose hope. She had begun to lose hope of ever returning to her world, though the thought was so frightening that she hadn't consciously acknowledged it.

"Oh, my darling boy—it is for such times that Hope was made." She pulled the man's head onto her shoulder, her hand splayed out protectively against the dark wool of his hood, adding softly, "Loss, grief, pain—it is in these moments of despair that Hope does its best work."

The woman began to hum to the man, a haunting melody that soothed but held a melancholy air that put Merrill in mind of the last days of autumn right before the first snow. The whole scene, the campfire, the hooded figures, the wistful, hopeful, longing tone of the conversation belonged in a movie. The shadows cast by the flames, the smoke trailing into the dark blue vault of the sky, the distant howl of wolves, and the silvery light of the full moon above was too atmospheric to be real.

 _"_ _Am I dreaming?"_ she wondered aloud.

Then the ground dropped out beneath her feet, the scene faded to black, and she slept once more.

* * *

ooOoo

"Where in the blazes is he, Elrond? You cannot keep him from me!"

Elrond rubbed his forehead tiredly, setting aside the missive he'd been perusing to focus solely on the angry elf before him. "I must, mellon nin, for the present, at least. I cannot have this unfortunate incident be the cause of yet another kin-slaying – I believe you would agree that we have all had our share of those."

Radhrion slammed his hands onto the desk, knocking inkwells and goblets, alike, to the floor. "Damn it all, Elrond! After what he did, you still intend to protect him?"

Elrond collected his papers and swept them into a secure drawer, away from the dripping mess of his desk, his expression as serene as ever, though an undercurrent of tension could be seen in the lines around his lips and the drawn quality of his skin. "I intend to protect us all, Radhrion. Emotions are running high everywhere my glance falls, and strong emotions and our kind do not mix, as you are well aware. We tend to make foolish choices when influenced by the devastating power of our own feelings. Besides," he said, raising his hand to forestall Radhrion's words, "I am fond of Merrill, too, Radhrion. Do not think for one moment that I am at all impartial on the matter."

Before Radhrion could reply, a voice from the doorway asked, "I believe you wished to speak to me, Radhrion?"

Elrond's face went white and he got to his feet, his hand reaching for the sword that no longer hung from his waist. "Glorfindel, this is not the best–"

Radhrion whirled around, hauled off, and punched Glorfindel square in the jaw, his head snapping back at the impact. Another blow landed, and another, Radhrion's fists a blur. "How DARE you – just for some lesson?! She could have DIED, you bastard! Died!" He slammed Glorfindel into the opposite wall, scrolls raining down on the golden-haired elf's prone body.

Radhrion lunged, teeth bared, but Elrond managed to restrain him, though just barely.

"Radhrion! Calm yourself. Cannot you see that he has raised no hand in his defense? I will not have a kin-slaying! And Glorfindel!" His eyes flashed, the glint of sunlight on steel, to Glorfindel, who had risen cautiously from the floor, wiping the split in his lip before examining the blood on his hand with mild detachment. "I ordered you to the border until the Fellowship set off! Why have you returned?"

Glorfindel took a chair by the fire, tugging at the cuffs of his mussed tunic and smoothing his breeches with a fastidiousness that spoke of his unease. But his voice was as clear and firm as ever it was when he said, "I felt that I should offer my own explanations and apologies, my lord. I have never been one to avoid conflict, and I do not intend to do so, now. Radhrion," he addressed Radhrion with his usual formality. "You must know that I would never have put her in harms' way; that I would never allow her death. After I had been tasked with her instruction in spirit healing, I was given the opportunity I never once desired of becoming better acquainted with your charge and, as such, came to the conclusion that she would only learn effectively if she was appropriately challenged. Merrill must believe she has no other recourse before she is able to overcome herself and use her abilities and, therefore, the challenge I set needed to be marginally severe. So, after attempting for several weeks to train her utilizing more traditional methods, I struck upon a plan: I would ask her to accompany me on patrol where she would be able to experience a light skirmish and the reality of the battleground. This, I believed, would encourage her to make an honest attempt to connect with herself and use her soul to heal, and I was correct. The conditions proved successful. Also, she was able to use what weapons training she has been given to keep herself alive, so you now know that she can protect herself to some extent in battle. Again," he said while leaning forward, his cold blue eyes hard, "I did _not_ plot to harm her, and, though a little bruised and exhausted, she is physically and mentally whole but for the cut on her arm."

"You truly do not understand one whit, do you?" Radhrion asked, shaking his head in utter bafflement. "I'm dumbfounded – absolutely dumbfounded." He ceased his attempts to escape from Elrond's arms and scowled out the window, eyes roving the horizon as though he expected to discover the answers to every question he might ever think to ask written against the blue of the sky in ink made of clouds. The afternoon sun limned his face in an orange glow, alighting on the red facets of his hair and glinting like embers against the dark.

"I do not know why," he began, his voice deadly quiet, "but that girl – that stubborn, brave, funny, darling little girl – is MINE." He turned his regard on Glorfindel once more, his eyes slits in the pale mask of his face. "Her death would have meant my own. Do you understand now what you have done wrong? She is a CHILD, Glorfindel! She is but 22 years old, and you nearly led her to her death! And even now, you have no shame—no true remorse." His lip curled and he turned his face away in disgust. "You sicken me."

Glorfindel winced, a shadow spreading across the tan of his face like drops of black ink in a glass of water; his expression darkened, grew murky, and his eyes became flat and dull. He took a shaky breath and set his jaw, determined, it seemed, to do this, as all else, with the strictest of attention shown to civility and decorum. "I apologize. My methods, though effective, appear to have upset many. All I can say in my defense is that I trained her as thoroughly as I would any other. I trained her so that she could survive, and I wish that it will be so. I have never been one to take half measures. Though this may appear insufficient to your feelings, I did what I did with the best of intentions."

"The ends do not always justify the means, Glorfindel. Her life is more valuable than your successes," Radhrion replied scornfully.

Glorfindel spread his hands wide, a gesture of conciliation meant to appease. "I agree, and now she may defend it. But I feel it is best we let this conversation rest. I have something else to relate that you will find interesting."

Elrond cautiously loosened his hold and Radhrion shrugged him off and stalked over to the window, setting his back to the wall with his arms crossed and his teeth clenched. "What could you _possibly_ have to say to me?"

Elrond offered Radhrion a goblet of wine and did the same for Glorfindel before resuming his own seat, fingers steepled beneath his chin, sharp eyes catching even the slightest movement.

Glorfindel took a sip and then set the goblet precisely in the center of the table, fussing with it for longer than necessary. When he glanced up, his expression was grave. "She sang a healing, Radhrion. I coerced her into attempting a spirit healing by claiming exhaustion, and, within moments of dropping into meditation, her lips parted and this–" Glorfindel stopped, seemingly at a loss for words. He pushed his hair back and downed the rest of his wine before continuing in an increasingly disbelieving tone, "It was song, but not as I have ever heard it. I nearly lost myself to it; memories I believed long forgotten resurfaced. The faces of those I have failed, those long departed, returned to me, and the interminable years of my life fell from my shoulders like so much dust. It was the beauty of the world as it once was: sparkling, blue streams and lakes appeared before my sight, their dark surfaces strewn with the reflections of their heavenly counterparts, and youthful trees, green with life, more vibrant than any of this age can even recall, sang once more. I was young, again—my heart whole. The song surrounded me— _became_ me—until I half believed myself to be in Valinor. I had just enough awareness to notice that all within the clearing had begun to heal. Nîdhion, who had lost so much blood I had almost begun to despair of him, sprung up after only seconds. Dormant trees threw out blossoms, the grass grew until it was waist high, and long dead leaves grew green beneath our feet." He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, which shook ever so slightly. "Then a cry woke me. I scanned the clearing until I found one of my guards locked in combat. I rolled to my feet, prepared to assist, when I noted what had caused her fear; the Orc she battled was missing its' head. My guard dispatched it, but its' legs still twitched. Realizing what must be happening, I ordered the corpses burnt and tried to wake her before she killed herself by raising even more of the dead."

A goblet crashed to the floor with a clatter and both Glorfindel and Elrond faced Radhrion who looked as though he'd seen a ghost.

"She did _what_?"

Elrond got to his feet unsteadily, his hands flat on his desk for support, his eyes intent on Radhrion's face. "Radhrion, who _is_ she?"

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Please note - Merrill is not suddenly super-powered or anything, and I promise the pay-out on her story will make sense. I've done my research and worked with canon as closely as I can, only deviating when Tolkien's writing begs to be expanded upon or when it is absolutely necessary for the shape of my story.  
**

 **On to the gratitude:**

 **THANKS SO MUCH FOR YOUR REVIEWS! I am unbelievably flattered by your continued interest and support of this story. Thank you, thank you, thank you.**

 **Convalla91 - The manner in which you demonstrate your enjoyment of my writing is honestly so potent that it is almost tangible. Thank you so much for that; it makes my heart glad.**

 **KillerCupcakes - Your exuberance, and the force of your words, illustrates, quite powerfully, the energy with which you approach your life. Thank you for sharing some of that, here, and for your witty, playful comments.**

 **Daphne10 - As you can see, your prediction as to Radhrion's reaction was spot on. Thanks for your review!**

 **D'elfe - Thanks! 'Beautiful' makes me squeak like an overexcited gerbel with delight!**

 **Julie010588 - Thank you for your comment! I hope you continue to enjoy!**

 **Cherryorpeach - Glorfindel has his own story, and, while Merrill does play a significant part in it, the role of BFF will always be Radhrions, I'm afraid. But I will not dissuade you from hoping for happiness for Glorfy in future... I will only say that, perhaps, his heart is not as empty it currently appears.**

 **AnimaQueen - Hmm, not sure about Disney stories, but maybe Grimm's fairy tales? More Merrill's style, tbh. :D**

 **Guest '1' - Thank you for loving Radhrion and for your comment! He insisted from the first page that he be included, and how, I ask you, is he to be resisted?**

 **Guest '2' - Though I am uncertain as to where you take pause as concerns her behavior, I will say that Merrill is human, and every person I know could fill several volumes in the recitation of their regrets - she is no different. Thanks for your comment! I appreciate it.**

 **Guest '3' (who may, or may not, be Guest '2' going by similarities in writing patterns) - I am glad you stuck around! Merrill and I are growing together and, in some ways, so, too, is Glorfindel. He's been in stasis for too long, for a number of reasons I cannot yet get into, but Merrill's a bulldozer (she leaves disruption and change in her wake), and Glorfy has been altered by her mere presence, as have many others. Thanks for the comment!**

 **Guest '4' - Thank you for the compliment! I strive to improve always, and it is pleasant to be validated in such a way. As for Glorfy - well, if you like him now, there's nowhere to go but up. He's like wine in this story - he just gets better with age.**

 **Best wishes to you all ~**


	25. Chapter 25

**"What the fortune teller said is**  
 **I'm alive now but good as dead**  
 **She claims she'd seen it all**  
 **While she was gazing in her crystal ball**

 **If I can't evade my fate**  
 **Then I won't sit around and wait**  
 **A fallen star will be thy faith**  
 **And call you by your ancient names."**

 **-Lord Huron, 'Ancient Name Pt. 1'.**

* * *

ooOoo

Her entire body ached as though she'd been dragged behind a horse for a few miles then stuffed into a cannon and ejected into a cliff-face, only to land in a field of stampeding elephants.

"How are you feeling, Merrill?"

Merrill blinked until her vision cleared. She was in the infirmary, in a private room, and Gandalf the Gray sat beside her bed, his eyes inscrutable, his face aglow from the embers of the pipe hanging from his lips.

She groaned and pulled a pillow over her head. "Oh my god, am I dead?"

He chuckled. "No, no. You are very much alive."

"What day is it?" she asked, her voice muffled.

"It is two in the morning on December 17th, if you want to know. And you have been asleep for ten days."

A sense of déjà vu temporarily stole her voice. Where had she heard that before? But then questions bubbled to her lips. "Ten days? What happened?"

He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully for a few moments until the smoke shrouded his face. "Before I answer you, I must ask: what is it that you remember?"

Merrill's face scrunched up with the effort of thought. "Hmmm… not a lot? At least, not accurately, unless I covered the clearing in sparkly blue stuff and healed Nîdhion?"

"Nothing else?" he asked gently.

She twisted the edge of her blankets with her fingers and considered once more. "I think…" she began tentatively.

"Yes?"

"I remember everything hurting. It felt like somebody had split my back open, tore off my ear, slit my throat, and a myriad of other, unpleasant things. Then something happened, and I was happy; the pain faded away and light replaced it. I remember… light," she finished lamely. "There was so much light."

Gandalf leaned back in his seat and puffed heavily for a few minutes.

Merrill waited as long as she could before asking, "So… what actually happened? And where's Radhrion? I thought he'd be here."

His eyes glittered amidst the blue smoke. "He has barely left your side. But he asked me to sit with you this evening so he might speak with Elrond."

"Oh. Well, you don't have to stay. I'm fine. You should get some sleep."

"Ah," he said as he upended his pipe into a bin and began to stuff it full of dried leaves. "I cannot rest this night, my thoughts bustle and stumble against one another too often for that."

Merrill nodded, uncertain as to whether she could sleep in his presence, before he said smoothly, "I have been told you are a fine singer. Might you sing me a song?"

"Who in the hell told you that, and what sort of drugs were they on?"

Gandalf lit the pipe with his finger, a trick that left Merrill gaping, before replying, "Legolas and Gimli. They spoke quite enthusiastically of your talent, my dear."

She punched her pillows back into shape and resettled herself against them. "They were mistaken, then. My voice is pretty crap. I can carry a tune in a bucket, when I must, but only barely."

"I should like to judge for myself, if you don't mind. Think of it as an old man's wish."

 _What is it with this place?_ She thought irritably. _I've just woken from a mini-coma, I'm in the hospital, and I feel like hell warmed over, but now the local magician wants me to sing him a lullaby?_ Merrill appraised him more closely than she had had the opportunity to do when they'd first met; he was tall and lean, but bowed. His eyes sparkled with mischief but, simultaneously, drooped at the corners with sorrow, and his lips quirked in a way that made Merrill think he was made of secrets.

Seeing no way to refuse, Merrill reluctantly agreed. "Well… alright, then. You probably won't know the song, but you already knew that, didn't you?"

He merely closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of his chair expectantly.

Merrill cleared her throat officiously and clasped her hands together before her. "Three, blind mice. Three, blind mice. See how they—"

" _Merrill_ ," Gandalf scolded, but the twitch of his lips belied his tone.

"Okay, okay. Keep your hat on." Merrill bit her lip as she considered. She was feeling too quiet, in herself, to sing anything upbeat, and the purpose wasn't to impress, but to lull, so she chose Hozier and began:

 _"I knew that look dear_

 _Eyes always seeking_

 _Was there in someone_

 _That dug long ago_

 _So I will not ask you_

 _Why you were creeping_

 _In some sad_ way _I already know_

 _So I will not ask you where you came from_

 _I would not ask and neither would you_

 _Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips_

 _We should just kiss like_ _real people do."_

She finished, her voice husky but soft, and let the room lapse back into silence.

Both Gandalf and she turned when a sigh issued from somewhere beyond the room.

"I fear you do yourself a disservice when you run your voice down so; you have quite the talent, my dear, for capturing hearts."

Merrill rolled her eyes and replied, "I thought you wanted a song to help you sleep, so sleep. G'night." She flipped onto her stomach and pulled the blankets tight around herself, hoping he'd take the hint and leave. But he stayed for several hours more until Merrill had fallen asleep. When she woke, he was gone, and the sun had risen well beyond morning.

Her stomach growled loudly, and she curled up around it at the pain. She was starving.

"Excuse me? Anyone there?" she called hopefully.

The door opened and in came Nîdhion, his dark brows drawn down low over his warm brown eyes. "May I come in, my lady?"

Merrill pounced, unable to contain her hunger. "Do you know if there's any food for me out there? I'm starving."

His eyes widened and his lips parted but he immediately bowed low and vanished through the door, returning moments later with a platter of fruit, bread, and cheese. "Is this sufficient, my lady? I can fetch something else if it doesn't suit."

Merrill tumbled out of bed and snatched a hunk of bread off the plate, shoving it into her mouth with one hand while reaching for a pear with the other. "'s good. 's there more?"

Nîdhion set the plate down and vanished once again. By the time he'd returned, two more plates in hand, Merrill had long ago polished off the first plate and sat, jittering, on the edge of her bed, her blankets wrapped tight over her head and under her chin. When she saw him, her eyes lit up and she sprung.

"'ank you!" she managed to say around a mouthful of cheese, grapes, and bread.

"Of course, anything for you."

But Merrill wasn't listening. Within two minutes, she'd demolished his second offering and eagerly searched for more. "Is there any more?"

He blinked, concern creasing his brow. "More? Umm, no. The cooks are at their own midday, so the kitchens are empty. But… what are you doing?"

Merrill had stood, sliding her bare feet into her boots. He reached out to steady her, blushing fiercely when the blanket slipped and her shoulder peeked out.

"I'm going to the kitchens. Thanks… Do you have a nickname? A pet name? I guess I could call you, 'Niddy'… but it just sounds like there should be a 'P' before it, you know?"

The question clearly threw him, her mind jumped about wildly, but he replied earnestly, "My name means… honeycomb. But my naneth always called me 'honey'." He blushed even darker at this revelation, but Merrill barely noticed.

She clapped him on the back. "Okay, 'Honeycrisp' it is. So will you help me to the kitchens, Honeycrisp? Or do you have somewhere you need to be?"

"I… well… yes, of course, my lady," he stuttered breathlessly, utterly bewildered by her behavior.

They set off only after she had given him explicit permission to wrap his arm around her waist, a venture he found too daunting or, possibly, too suggestive to attempt without approval. He asked after her health, her well-being, and filled her in on who had visited her while she slept, two names of which shocked her: Legolas… and Glorfindel.

Nîdhion was so well-informed that Merrill, almost dizzy with hunger, asked, "Have you been watching over me this entire time?"

He averted his face. "You saved my life. I owe you a debt."

Merrill knocked her head against his shoulder to get his attention, then said firmly, "You don't owe me a thing, Honeycrisp. You were injured defending me, don't you remember? So if you're really into this whole 'life-debt' thing, then I'd say we were even, wouldn't you?"

His mouth fell open, and he appeared stricken, so much so, in fact, that Merrill regretted saying anything.

"Okay, okay. Hold on there, Honeycrisp. How about we be friends? Debts don't exist between friends, they just care about, and worry for, each other. How's that sound?"

He beamed at that, looking away and then back up bashfully, his eyes bright with happiness. "I would like that very much, my lady…" Nîdhion met her scowl and quickly amended, "… I mean, Merrill."

"That'll do, pig." She towed him through the kitchen door and almost cried aloud with joy. Gimli sat before her on a high stool, cutting into an entire pie. "Gimli! Is there any more? I'm starving!"

Gimli clapped his hands together, a wide grin peeking out from his beard, and gestured her over enthusiastically. "There's plenty, lassie, plenty. Come sit down and tell me all that has passed with you." As Merrill sat down and immediately began to stuff her face, Gimli added stiffly, "And I s'pose yer friend can join us, if he will."

Nîdhion inclined his head politely and took a seat beside Merrill, idly toying with a bit of bread while he watched the others eat.

"This is Honeycrisp. Honeycrisp, this is Gimli," she introduced after swallowing a half a slice of pie whole. "Honeycrisp saved my life, and he's been super sweet to me. He even fed me; brought me three plates."

Merrill knew that both of these things would endear her shy elf friend to the wary dwarf, and she wasn't disappointed. Gimli's shoulders relaxed and he shoved a mug of ale over to Nîdhion, who gazed into its' depths doubtfully.

"Young 'un like you needs some ale 'round midday," he said gruffly. "Eat, eat! There's plenty."

Nîdhion lifted the mug to his lips, his face screwing up at the taste, but swallowed it down and murmured something about it being delicious.

Gimli, never one to turn away a stray, refilled his glass – six more times.

To his credit, Nîdhion swallowed it down each time, always with something kind to say afterwards, but Merrill took pity on him and began to accept the mugs for herself, claiming she was a growing lass in need of ale, too. Gimli, ever amused by her attempts at drinking, rapidly lost interest in Nîdhion in favor of focusing on her.

Sixteen savory pies, seven berry pies, two cheese platters, and a bowl of soup later and Merrill put her fork down for the last time, rubbing her stomach while Gimli belched in satisfaction beside her.

"I think I'm finally full," she remarked dreamily.

Gimli snorted. "Never in my life have I seen a lass put away so much food in one sitting. Are ye sure ye aren't a dwarrowdam? Yer a bit tall, true, but stranger things, and all that."

"No, Gimli. I'm not a dwarf. I'm not even an elf, I don't think. Just… a really confused human."

Gimli's lips disappeared in the wild, red tangle that was his beard. "Yer not an elf? How ye figure? You sure got the ears and the…" He stared up at the ceiling, batting his eyelashes, his hands clasped together in front of his breast in what he clearly considered to be an apt imitation of all elves. "Ye know, the flowery, whismy, elfy stuff," he finished, waving his hand as though to encompass her entire being with a gesture.

Merrill, a little drunk, knocked into a moaning Nîdhion, who had passed out the hour before mumbling something about apples, his head cushioned by a loaf of bread. "You take that back!"

He shook his head stubbornly, an expression of smug superiority lighting his face. "I shan't. Beat me in practice, tomorrow, and we'll see."

"Shake on it," Merrill insisted.

He accepted her hand and they shook, both serious, until their eyes met and they burst out laughing.

"Ach, well," he said, wiping tears from his brown eyes. "Ye cannae blame me, lassie, if I seem a wee bit out 'ah sorts. You left me with Nordir for two days. Damn near killed him before Radhrion stopped by and told us ye wouldn't be needing yer lessons for a few days." He shifted in his seat, his face growing serious. "Speaking of, what happened to ye, lassie? Radhrion would only say you were out on guard duty, and that dinnae make any sort of sense."

Merrill exhaled gustily, half of her toying with the idea of attempting a second serving of dumpling stew, the other half sifting through her memories from the week before and scratching her head. "If I knew, I'd tell you. Short version? Went out with Glorfy and a few others and got attacked by a group of Orcs. Didn't die, so, you know, that was good."

"And did ye fight?" Gimli's eyes gleamed as they always did when he spoke of fighting.

"Well, sorta. I only had a stick to fight with, so nothing fancy, but I did manage not to die for quite a while before someone saved me. I think it was Glorfindel, come to think of it."

Gimli took a swig of his ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and said ruminatively, "Ah, the Golden One. If the talk is true, he and Radhrion had a wee chat about his treatment of you, as did he and that healer elf of yours. Came out to the training fields next day with a split lip, a bruised cheek, and a limp."

Merrill's jaw hit the floor and she flitted over the information about Nestadis in favor of reassuring herself as to the condition of her friend. "What about Radhrion? Is he permanently maimed? Missing a leg, or a foot, or an elbow or something? Does he still have all of his own teeth?"

"Not a scratch on 'em, lassie, donnae worry so."

The pleasant after meal fatigue had worn off and now Merrill was practically chomping at the bit to find, and yell at, her odd, elf friend. "Do you know where I can find him?" When she discerned his reluctance, she added, "It's really important, Gimli."

He took another hasty swig and then slammed his empty mug down. "Ach, blast it. Elrond sent him to the other side of the valley to collect himself or some nonsense." Gimli leaned precariously to peer out towards the window. "He should be back by now, though. Dinner's almost upon us. Speaking of," he said, looking around the kitchen with some consternation, "where are the cooks? They went off to midday and never returned."

Merrill got to her feet, bolting the rest of her ale down before kissing a stuttering Gimli on the cheek and speeding out the kitchen door. She called over her shoulder, "Make sure Honeycrisp gets back home safe, please!"

Gimli pushed the door open and bellowed at her retreating back, "I'm no nursemaid, ye bleedin' minx!" He scowled, finally noticing the hall was filled with elves wearing aprons and horrified expressions, and exclaimed, "By Durin's saggy left nut - where in the void have you been? It's almost time for supper!"

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **The song Merrill sings is, 'Like Real People Do,' by Hozier.**

 **Thank you all so much for your comments!**

 **I wanted to go over this, but you are, as usual, getting the first draft. I may take some time to go over what I have typed up and revise before posting again.**

 **I promise I'll thank you individually next chapter - working on two presentations due Monday with indolent and unresponsive group members and slowly losing the will to live, lol. Gotta get back to it.**

 **Best wishes ~**


	26. Chapter 26

**"A person isn't who they are during the last**

 **conversation you had with them -**

 **they're who they've been throughout**

 **your whole relationship."**

 **-Rainer Maria Rilke**

* * *

ooOoo

After having followed one erroneous lead after another to no avail, Merrill returned to her rooms that night in a state of dejection. She worried for Radhrion until sleep overcame her, then woke the next evening, still tired, but, once again, ravenous.

Honeycrisp awaited her in the dining hall and he watched in fascination as she put away three more pies and a salad. She had just begun to work on a fourth helping of salad when Radhrion entered the hall.

The room went dead silent before erupting into whispers of conjecture: W _here had he been? Was it true he had raised his fists in anger and beaten Glorfindel like a common, human thug?_

Though she hated them on principle, she could see why they gossiped. Radhrion looked like ten miles of bad road; his hair was rumpled, shadows hung like drapes beneath his eyes, and his skin had a sallow quality to it that made him appear, on the whole, unwell. His clothes, too, were wrinkled as though he'd slept in them.

He stood in front of his chair for a moment, staring at it as though he'd forgotten what it was for.

Merrill, worried, leapt to his rescue and pulled it out for him. He visibly startled when she spoke. "Sit down, Ronny. Have a pie."

"If Merrill hasn't eaten 'em all, that is," Gimli joked from across the room.

"Stuff it, Gimlet." She eased Radhrion into his chair before filling his plate and shoving it under his nose. "You've gotta eat something; you look exhausted."

But Radhrion just stared back blankly.

She wrapped his hand around his fork and released; it fell from his stiff fingers and pinged against the floor.

"Fine." Merrill filled a lettuce leaf with rice and lentils, folding it closed, then bumped it against his lips. "Eat it or wear it, Ronny."

Finally, he blinked to awareness and murmured, "Your compassion warms the cockles of my heart, little bird."

Merrill, relieved, grinned and placed his food back onto his plate, replacing his fork with the one Nîdhion sheepishly offered her. "My compassion will get a whole lot worse if you don't eat everything I put on your plate there, mister. I give you fair warning."

Radhrion's gaze dropped to his plate. "I consider myself warned. Stop hovering, mother; I've been feeding myself for several thousand years without issue; I believe I am up to the task."

She opened her mouth to argue, but Nîdhion touched her arm and shook his head; it was obvious Radhrion was going through something, and her smart-ass quips probably wouldn't help matters any.

Merrill thanked him and watched Radhrion from the corner of her eye until he'd finished. When he got to his feet and made to leave, she was on his heels, dogging his footsteps for the length of several corridors until he motioned her into his room and closed the door.

For all the time they'd spent together, Merrill had never actually seen where he lived.

The chamber, itself, was larger than her own, with a queen sized, four poster bed, a settee, a small table, two, wingback chairs in front of the fire, bookshelves stuffed to bursting with leather bound tomes and various scrolls, a dresser, an armoire, and a door leading off to his bathroom. The westerly facing wall was absent; arches draped with gauzy, deep blue silk separated his room from the balcony, which held a small, wooden table and two chairs facing the sunset.

His boots were lined up neatly beside the door, freshly polished, and his bed was perfectly made.

Radhrion strode past her and sunk into a chair by the fire, waving towards the chair opposite while pouring two glasses of wine.

"Would you prefer something else?"

Merrill flung herself gracelessly into the chair, stretching her long legs out towards the fire. "Nope. Wine's good."

"Good," he muttered. "Good is…"

"Good?" she supplied helpfully.

"Yes. Good."

They lapsed into tense silence. All that could be heard was the sigh of the wind through the curtains and the hissing of the logs in the flames.

Merrill nudged him with the toe of her boot and smiled encouragingly when he managed to tear his eyes away from the rug. "Do you want to tell me what's going on with you? Or do you need a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence before you're ready?"

His eyes flicked up to her, then down to his goblet, then back to her. In one swift movement, he downed his wine, refilled his goblet, then downed it again, licking his lips.

"Little bird… Merrill. I –" Radhrion ran his hands back and forth over his hair vigorously, creating a mess of tangles it physically hurt her to look at.

"I heard about Glorfindel," she offered when it seemed he would not go on. "I'm sorry I worried you so much. But look at me!" Merrill stood and twirled on the spot. "I am really okay. Had a huge headache, and ate about forty pies in one sitting, but I feel a lot better. Really," she added when he snorted disbelievingly. "So, is that what this mood of yours is about? The Golden-Haired Godling's deathly bootcamp?"

He opened his mouth, closed it, then took another swig of wine before replying curtly, "We needn't speak of him, again, and you needn't train with him, either. There isn't time to do so, regardless of my personal feelings. The Fellowship will be departing in a week."

Merrill almost fell out of her chair. "What? But I thought –"

"Elrond felt it prudent we depart sooner rather than later." Radhrion paced to the balcony and back, twisting the ring on his finger agitatedly. "Considering the evidence, namely the increase in Orc attacks, I have to agree. Rivendell is no longer safe. Orcs harass our borders, daily. Their master guesses where his precious item resides. No, no. He is correct. We must leave, though the very thought casts a shadow over my heart."

Her stomach turned sour. Not four weeks before she would have jumped at Radhrion's news. Now, though, the very thought of leaving, of camping in the wilderness with those beasts stalking her, left her sick.

 _I was lucky before. If Glorfindel had been just a little slower, I'd be dead, and so would Nîdhion._

Merrill recalled its hands on her throat, its knee in her back, its claws digging into the torn flesh of her arm and shuddered. " _One week_?" she squeaked.

Radhrion closed his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose. "You must pack. Cailiel will bring you to the manor's Quartermaster tomorrow morning, and I will accompany you to the Blacksmith. It is time you had your own weapons, fitted to your specifications, and your own armor. And Nestadis wishes to speak to you, as well." He sipped distractedly and suggested, "I would go there now, if I were you. She was adamant. And she will be able to assist you in packing your healer's kit. Remind her we have a pack horse, and be sure to – well, you know, my dear, what is best."

Merrill got to her feet, which she no longer felt, and nodded mechanically.

Her hand was on the doorknob when Radhrion called, "I will keep you safe, Merrill. I swear it."

Her heart swelled and sunk. Only he would make a vow out of the impossible, improbable, and statistically unlikely. She let the door close behind her rather than reply, and leaned back against it.

Externally, she appeared calm, though her freckles stood out fiercely against her suddenly pale skin and sweat gathered in sheets on her palms. Internally, though, Merrill dug madly, searching for any determination she might muster, or any emotion, really, that she might use to fortify her rapidly crumbling sense of calm. But there was simply none to be had, and any such attempts were met with the memory of hot, fetid breath on her cheek, the sharp, lancing pain of a sword along her arm, and an explosion of light, the energy being ripped from her body, then the cold, black nothing that was more like death than sleep.

Merrill let her head fall back against the cold, stone wall and closed her eyes tight to the pounding ache at the base of her skull. There was nothing for it. "Please," she whispered to the ceiling, her voice harsh in the empty corridor, "whatever gods exist, here, let us survive this."

ooOoo

The walk to the infirmary was longer than she remembered it ever being. Her steps were heavier than her heart, and her mind was oddly still. Now that she was finally about to leave, Merrill could think of a thousand reasons why she should stay.

"I'm fickle," she lamented to a potted plant. "How much time did I spend trying to convince everyone to let me go with them? And now look at me – I'm hoping someone will order me to stay."

The potted plant was hibernating, like most of the other plant life, and didn't deign to reply.

Merrill crouched down beside the door that lead to Nestadis' study and stroked the plant's leaves. "Do you think I'll make it out of this story alive? I'm not the hero, which ups my chances, I guess."

"My dear apprentice," Nestadis drawled from her office, "do come in and cease the dramatics. You will survive. Do you believe I would have bothered training someone I expected would be dead within a handful of months? And close the door; there's a chill in the air, and I know how you still feel it."

Merrill hastily got to her feet, slipping into the office and closing the door.

Hundreds of candles lit the room, and a fireplace flickered in the grate. In the midst of it all stood her teacher, elbow deep in the bucket that held the two, ailing fish.

The firelight leant her prickly instructor an unearthly, bronze glow that put Merrill in mind of statues of Greek Goddesses, gleaming lances held in firm hands, and fathomless, stone eyes flashing with righteous fury. Her long, jet black hair flowed down her back in heavy waves, her white sleeves were rolled halfway up her dark arms, and the hem of her gown puddled like moonlight against the shadowy floor.

Merrill examined her, wondering if the rumors of her argument with Glorfindel were true. Nestadis liked her, she was pretty sure, but to face-off with the most powerful elf in Rivendell for her?

"Well?" Nestadis barked, blowing a strand of hair from her face. "Will you just stand there, mouth agape, or will you come here and help me?"

"Oh, yeah, of course." Merrill hovered by her side, hands extended uncertainly. "Err, what do you want me to do?"

Nestadis rolled her blue eyes heavenwards. "Heal them, of course! I wish to see the results of your training with Glorfindel."

Merrill hesitated a second too long.

"Was I unclear, apprentice? Or have you momentarily lost your wits?"

"It hurt," Merrill said, hoping it didn't sound like she was whining. "Last time… it really hurt. Will I feel what the fish feel if I try it again?"

Nestadis shrugged, the movement causing her hair to fall forward. "You might."

"Then, no." Merrill took a step back, her hands held up before her. "Sorry, but no. I'll hold them down while you feed them medicine, or bathe them, or, well, whatever else, but I can't do that again."

"I see." Nestadis pursed her plum colored lips and whispered something below her breath. The bucket glowed silver, then went out. "Will you take them into the hall? I don't wish them to be too near the fire."

Merrill accepted the bucket and peered into it. The fish peered back, noticeably perkier. "Did you heal them?"

Nestadis rolled her shoulders, then worked on her neck, easing the kinks in her spine. "Of course," she replied briskly. "I used my spirit to heal them. Elrond, Glorfindel, or myself could have done so at any time, we just wished for you to try it, first. Now do as I asked and come back. We must speak, you and I."

That didn't sound good at all. Merrill lugged the bucket into the hall and slouched back into the room like a guilty puppy, her feet dragging.

Nestadis had assumed the no nonsense wooden chair behind her desk; her hands folded in her lap, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "There are things you must know, Merrill, which is what I told the others when they wished to remain silent. We cannot cast you into the wilds without any inkling of your abilities, or their extent."

"What—"

She raised one, ebony skinned hand and Merrill's mouth snapped shut. "You may put your questions to me once I have finished speaking, but I ask that you remain silent until then." Nestadis observed her closely as she took the chair opposite her, and only began once Merrill had fully settled into it. "As I was saying, the events in the clearing the day you were set upon by Orcs occurred very differently than you remember. You sang a healing, something that only a handful of our kind can do, and brought the trees out of dormancy, encouraged the grass to grow, healed everyone near you, and brought an Orc back from the dead, which is the reason for the sudden increase in your appetite. You expended too much of your own soul's energy at one time. You know I do not mince my words, so I will not insult you by doing so, now: to put it simply, you nearly died that day, Merrill, and if you do not receive further training, it is very likely that the next time you attempt to use the Fëa Athae, you will. You may speak, if you wish, though I have still more to relate."

Merrill's head swam, and something that felt more like beetles than butterflies erupted in her stomach. "I don't understand what you mean, Nestadis. You're saying I sang? Is that still spirit healing, or…?"

Nestadis filled a goblet from a silver pitcher and handed it to her. "Drink this. It will help." She waited for Merrill to do as she said before continuing, "And, yes. It is spirit healing, in a way, but much more advanced. It is so advanced, in fact, that neither Elrond or myself can teach you anything further. You are beyond us both. Galadriel might be able to instruct you, or know of someone who might do so, which is why it is essential that you travel to Lothlorien as soon as possible." She examined her intertwined fingers and added, "Though I will not pretend I was pleased to hear that you had joined this Fellowship, I now see that it was the will of the Valar that you do so."

"Great," Merrill replied bitterly. "The will of the gods. Lovely. What else did you have to tell me? Am I going to grow three heads? Start spouting limericks? What?"

"May I continue? Or do you wish to go on?" Nestadis asked, one brow raised in warning.

Merrill decided not to chance it; she indicated Nestadis should continue.

"Very well. The fact is that your use of the Fëa Athae was so powerful, it was as though a beacon had been lit. I felt it from here, as did Elrond and many others. This concerns us, as it has very likely drawn the attention of Saruman, and we fear for your safety should you remain here any longer. It is imperative that you depart with the Fellowship. Even should you wish to stay, you could not. You must be as far from here as possible, as soon as possible, for the good of yourself and the people of this valley." Nestadis paused and politely allowed Merrill a moment to drink her words in.

Merrill's blood ran cold, and something pricked at the back of her eyes, but her voice was eerily calm when she clarified, "I am _in_ danger, and _a_ danger, is what you're saying. And you're shipping me off like that damn ring… Am I cursed, too? Is that what the others didn't want to tell me? That I'm some sort of horcrux?" She thought of her stilted conversation with Radhrion and her heart constricted painfully; was he frightened of her?

Nestadis stood abruptly and bustled from the room, returning shortly with a mug of herbal tea which she set before her with more force than necessary. "Drink this and, for the love of Estë, do please listen. You are not cursed, and none of us wish you to leave. I know Elrond agonized over this decision, and worries that you will resent him for it, though he did it to ensure your well-being. And, though I am unfamiliar with the word you used, having spent an abundant amount of time in your presence, I know it most likely means something entirely dramatic, so I feel fairly confident in telling you that you are not… whatever that was. You are yourself: a talented, sometimes lazy, always stubborn apprentice healer."

The tea was bitter on her tongue; spearmint seared the cobwebs from her head and brought the feeling back to her toes, but her heart hurt. Radhrion hadn't trusted her enough to tell her any of this, and neither had Elrond. They had wanted to keep it from her.

"Oh, dear," Nestadis sighed and shook her head. "That mind of yours… I'll never require a seer to know your thoughts. But you are entirely wrong, you know. This wasn't done to hurt you, it was done to save you."

Merrill swiped her hand across her cheeks and glared into the fire. "Radhrion behaved so strangely today. Now at least I know why. He thinks I'm a monster. Even in Middle Earth, a land where magic exists, resurrecting the dead isn't considered a positive thing, is it? I remember something about a bad guy called 'the Necromancer', so I'm assuming this talent of mine is all sorts of taboo."

"Listen here, you silly girl," Nestadis snapped, eyes glinting dangerously, "if you doubt for even a moment how deeply that mad elf of yours loves you, you are a fool. Radhrion adores you. Why, only three days past he attacked Glorfindel for putting you in harms' way, and you know how dangerous that was – you have witnessed them fight firsthand. Who but one who loves dearly would do so desperately senseless a thing?"

Merrill gritted her teeth, doing her best not to cry. She blatantly looked about her and asked dully, "I've been told we depart in a week. May I prepare a healer's kit to take with me?"

Nestadis eyed her, hands planted on her hips, then swooped down and dropped two, massive leather satchels on the desk between them. "I've prepared one myself. It has everything you might need. I have included a few, copper traveling cauldrons for your use, measuring cups and spoons, fresh and dried herbs, as well as ready-made balms and distillates that would take too long to make otherwise. You may stop by here at any time if there is something I have missed, but you do not need to come in for your work; you've much to accomplish and much to pack. I've also packed you some Wakeflower, as I know you have grown quite fond of it… as I have of you."

Merrill glanced up, certain she'd misheard, but met with a glassy eyed healer, instead. She was stunned, and it must have shown because Nestadis loaded the bags onto her back and chivvied her to the door, her tone hardening. "Do not be brave, Merrill. No foolish heroics. And do not use your spirit healing unless you've no other choice. Goodnight," she said as she half pushed her through the door, "and I expect to see you again before you depart."

The door snapped crisply in her face and Merrill stared at it in complete and utter disbelief for a few moments before she managed to scrap her jaw up off the floor and return to her rooms, her mind racing.

Nestadis' reaction frightened her like nothing else. Merrill had seen her stuff a man's intestines back into his abdomen while he was still conscious, observed, countless times, as she informed families of their loved ones' passing, and even watched as she'd tackled a panicked, dung-smeared, delusional patient to the ground before he could hurt himself or others with the scissors he had stolen, and never, not once, had Nestadis broken a sweat or batted an eye.

But the knowledge of her departure with the Fellowship seemed to have sparked some sort of breakdown in the stern elf's processes; she was dishevelled and emotional, two things Nestadis simply was _not,_ and she was... anxious. Nestadis. Anxious. The incongruity of the two terms set her teeth on edge.

Merrill's stomach wavered unpleasantly; if Nestadis was nervous enough to emote, she was plain doomed.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Got to talk housekeeping: I haven't had the chance to write since December, so I am rapidly running out of material to share with you all, which means that I will be slowing down on updates for a little. Sorry! RL's been a bastard.**

 **Thank you to all who faved + followed! Those little numbers are seriously encouraging when they go up!**

 **And all the hugs and gratitude to:**

 **Killercupcakes, Convalla91, MissMello, Shadow12177, Aralinn, tastethechaosxx, ColdOnePaul, TillyTheGoblinGirl (for your attempt at a comment), and Leelee202 for your comments!**

 **As you can see, Merrill's eating binge was necessary, and Convalla91, Nestadis is very much a Slytherin nowadays, though once upon a time, well... *coughs* You'll just have to wait and see, I guess. :)**

 **Aralinn - Glorfindel has definitely begun to see her differently; it would be strange if he didn't, after what they experienced together. Let's just say... there may be more to the reactions of those around her than meets the eye, especially those reactions that just don't quite make sense...  
**

 **Stay safe, happy, warm, and well, all! And see you back here in two weeks!**

 **Best wishes ~**


	27. Chapter 27

**"A man walks down the street**  
 **It's a street in a strange world**  
 **Maybe it's the Third World**  
 **Maybe it's his first time around..."**

 **\- Paul Simon, 'You can call me Al'.**

* * *

ooOoo

Cailiel woke her the next day, popped her into something like clothes, braided her hair, and ushered her down the hall, her manner unusually brusque.

One thing was clear: someone had wished themselves into someone else's body, and Merrill was inclined to think that the 'Freaky Friday' moment had occurred between the usually prickly Nestadis, and the bleeding-heart Cailiel.

When Merrill complained about the fittings at the Quartermaster, Cailiel scolded her until her ears could be seen from space, reminding her of the generosity of Elrond, the importance of well-fitted clothes and armor on such a quest, and more.

By the time she'd finished dressing Merrill down, they'd compiled everything on their list and Cailiel ordered her to the blacksmith, where Radhrion awaited her. Merrill hadn't bothered to reply, merely stuffed her feet into her boots and stomped off, face burning.

And her mood only got worse. Waiting for her outside the blacksmith's forge was none other than Legolas.

The warm feeling that blossoms in your heart at the sight of someone you haven't seen in a while, that strange mix of gladness to be facing someone you know, and who knows you, quite well, giddiness at the possibilities your being together brings, and devastating relief at the proof of their continued existence, kindled like flame in her chest, and Merrill smiled and took three steps before realization clobbered her; if he was here, that meant Radhrion was avoiding her.

She stopped abruptly, standing in the middle of the bustling, cobblestone street, conflicted by the duality of her emotions. One part of her wanted to throw her arms about his neck, relieved at the return to routine his presence signified, the safety. The other part wanted to pick a fight with him and blame him for Radhrion's absence.

Merrill chose something between the two. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Good afternoon, Merrill. I see you are well. Radhrion asked that I come in his stead, as Elrond has requested his presence." Legolas stooped a little and tried to catch her eyes. "I hope that is alright."

Merrill kicked a rock, sending it flying into the stone of the outer wall. "Sure you're comfortable being near me? I might raise the dead or burst into song at any moment. Could be dangerous; Radhrion obviously thinks so," she spat venomously.

Legolas put his hand on her back and steered her into the shop. "No one believes idle gossip, Merrill, and I am not frightened."

Merrill squinted at him suspiciously, but he just smiled and led her to the counter where a pile of brown leather armor lay.

"As you favor the bow, a light, leather armor would suit you well. I have already spoken with the blacksmith about having something similar to my own constructed, and she has agreed to modify this to suit you. I can vouch for its' flexibility and durability. My own has seen me through many a battle."

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with Prickly?"

He picked up the chest piece and brought it close to his face. "I am afraid I do not understand you… as is often the case," he muttered this last under his breath.

Merrill crossed her arms. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but, until this very moment, you've been extremely anti-my coming on the quest. So what changed?"

"Nothing," he answered simply. "Do you require a sword? I know Radhrion has ordered you the strange spear you prefer, but I was not certain whether the dwarf had trained you with anything else."

"What does that MEAN?" she half-yelled, stomping her foot childishly and drawing the eyes of several passers-by. "You don't make any sense!"

He shrugged, blue eyes indifferent. "It means that, though my feelings on the subject remain the same, I have been overruled. The matter of your accompanying us has been discussed numerous times by many, but it is what those whose words hold the greatest weight wished that ultimately prevailed. Gandalf and Elrond are resolved upon the matter, and that is an end of it."

When Merrill did no more but stare, he explained slowly, as one might to someone not particularly bright, "Everyone's opinions were discussed, but we were overruled. What is important now is that we depart, and if the wisest among us wish for your presence on this quest, it is not our place to refuse."

Merrill glared out at the street, jaw set, and asked stiffly, "And who are the 'wisest among us'?"

"Lord Elrond, Mithrandir, Lord Glorfindel, and Radhrion, of course," Legolas responded from the shadowy smithy. "Though they were not initially in favor of your going, excepting Mithrandir, they seem now to have all agreed that it is essential you do so."

"Ha!" Merrill scoffed, choosing resentment and a belief of her own mistreatment to shield herself from feeling what she really felt: abandoned.

Legolas tapped her on the shoulder and asked reproachfully, "What, ' _Ha_ '? You are inclined to disbelieve me?"

"Not you, per se, just your information." She shrugged his touch off and moved back into the smithy, picking up odds and ends in her distraction. "There's no way Radhrion wants me to come anymore. I think he's... avoiding me."

He held an arrow out for her inspection, but she pushed it back towards him. "Radhrion has been kept busy with preparations, as we all have, Merrill. And he does wish you to come. When Mithrandir gathered Aragorn and myself to inform us of their decision, Radhrion supported him."

"Then why did he send you?" she pointed out. "He promised he would be here for this."

Legolas dropped the arrow he held and stooped down to retrieve it so quickly that his silver hair flew back from his face before changing direction and falling in front of it completely. It put Merrill in mind of girls on rollercoasters, their hair flying about in all directions, which, obviously, lead her to picturing Legolas on a rollercoaster. Legolas eating cotton candy. Legolas watching fireworks. Legolas meeting Anna… Legolas meeting her _mom_. Legolas in _her_ world.

 _He'd probably freak and shoot everything full of arrows. Don't romanticize him,_ she scolded herself _. He's fictional and soooo off-limits._

Angry at herself, Merrill asked more coldly then she'd intended, " _Well_?"

He ran a hand over the back of his head, gaze fixed firmly on her boots, and replied quietly, "Because I asked that he do so."

"What?" Merrill shook her head, sure she'd misheard him.

Legolas lifted his gaze and repeated firmly, "Because I asked that he do so."

"Why?"

"I worried for you," he replied softly. "After the events in the woods, and the many days you passed in sleep, I wondered… I considered… I felt…" Legolas twisted the arrow around his fingers distractedly, his eyes focused somewhere over her left shoulder.

"Yes?" Merrill prompted, unconsciously straining to catch his words.

Legolas looked at her hopelessly, then shook his head, his mouth closing, and replied, "I… must not. I merely wished to see you; to ascertain your well-being, your return to health, with my own eyes." He took a deep, shuddering breath, then tried for his usual smile, but it didn't reach his troubled eyes. "And I am duly rewarded. You are the very image of health, Merrill. I am overjoyed to see that your encounter in the woods did no lasting damage."

Merrill released the breath she hadn't known she held, feeling somewhat… deflated by the conclusion of his words. What had she expected?

"No lasting damage," she muttered bitterly, thinking of the current state of her life. "Yeah, right. I'm just peachy."

He proffered a steel short-sword for her inspection, doing his best to shake off the odd atmosphere into which they had both fallen, and asked with forced cheerfulness, "Is this light enough for you to wield, do you think?"

* * *

ooOoo

Two hours later, weighted down with a custom made glaive, six daggers, a new quiver-full of armor piercing arrows, and a particularly foul mood, Merrill finally turned the corner to her room to find Honeycrisp awaiting her, flowers in hand.

"An anvil, a piano—anything, I beg you," Merrill hissed at the ceiling. She was not in the right mood for company, especially bouncy, pleasant, optimistic company. Merrill needed a grim, pessimistic, alcoholic willing to grumble right along with her. Unfortunately, she had no clue where Gimli might be.

Honeycrisp bounded to her side, looking so much like a puppy that she managed to hold her tongue, swallowing the vitriol bubbling behind her lips.

"Here, allow me," he said, tugging the glaive from her hands. "I worried when you missed breakfast."

Merrill pushed her door open and dumped her load onto the bed, flopping down moodily beside it. "Trust me, if I'd had my druthers, I would have been there. But the whole of Rivendell seems intent on getting rid of me, and that makes for a busy day." She lifted her head off the coverlet and added, "You can come sit, you know. I don't bite."

Nîdhion sat gingerly beside her, offering her a bread roll and an apple. "I wasn't sure you'd eaten," he explained when she looked quizzically at him in response. "And you need to eat. You are still unwell, and Nestadis is concerned."

She sat up and ruffled his dark hair. "Thanks, Honeycrisp." Merrill held the apple up and smiled. "An apple from an apple. Maybe I shouldn't eat this in front of you – it's almost like cannibalism."

He withdrew, eyeing her warily, and she laughed for the first time in two days. "I already told you – I don't bite. Anyway, what's this about Nestadis? Did she order you to feed me or something?"

"Not at all, though she did inform me of the increase in appetite that occurred as a result of your efforts to heal me, and suggested that you might not be eating as frequently as you should." Nîdhion traced the petals of an embroidered rose on her coverlet and added, "I think you remind her of her daughter, actually. I noticed the resemblance almost the moment we'd met."

Merrill almost fell out of her bed. "Her _what_? Nestadis has a daughter?!"

"Yes, of course… You did not know," he stated blandly.

"No I did not know!" Merrill leapt to her feet and began to tidy her room, stowing her daggers in her pack, her glaive against the wall, and her quiver in her armoire. Only when that was done did she ask, "Why didn't she ever tell me? Where is her daughter now? Have I met her and just not known? Why is everyone in this valley intent on keeping secrets from me?!"

Nîdhion put his hand on her arm and said kindly, "There are some things it hurts too much to speak of, Merrill; her reticence has nothing to do with you. If you would care to listen, I will relate some of her story, but not all. It is not my place to do so."

Merrill bit her lip, cheeks radiating heat; she hadn't expected to be reprimanded by Honeycrisp of all people. It was certainly shaping up to be a day for the record books. She'd managed to annoy two of the most easy-going elves she'd ever met, and it wasn't even noon.

Rather than speak, she sat down and remained silent.

He crossed to the fire silently. The flames flickered across the landscape of his face; the tip of his nose became a torch in the darkness, the crescents beneath his eyes became shadowy caverns, and the corners of his lips became craters on the face of the moon.

"Her name was Óríssë," he said simply, as though she was so essential and universal a being to him that he forgot that others might not know her. "Though I was yet young for our kind, and had not been admitted to the guard, I recall the burnished color of her skin, lighter than mine, the deep blue of her eyes, and the golden fall of her long hair. She was unlike the other elf maids; she spent much of her time at the border. And when she was home, she trained. Every weapon that passed through her hands, she mastered, every bit of plant lore, she learned. And her smile." Nîdhion's lips lifted gently at the memory, and Merrill's heart swelled at the adoration she heard behind his words. "Her smile was more radiant than the morning sun. Anoriel, I called her: Daughter of Sunlight, for that is what she lived and breathed, and that is what we lost." His voice softened considerably, until it was just above a whisper. "A week after she'd become Captain of the guard, she marched out with a company of guards to the Southern border, where she was to stay for the next six weeks. Two weeks in, they were attacked in the night by Orcs. All but two returned to Rivendell." A tear slid down his cheek and Merrill went to his side, gripping his arm in wordless support. His hand found hers and squeezed in acknowledgment. "Anoriel was stubborn, and much too brave."

Merrill patted his back and gazed ruminatively into the fire, her former bad mood forgotten. "You don't have to answer, but did you love her?"

Another tear fell to the carpet. And another.

"I understand," she murmured. "Words only go so far, express so much, don't they?"

"Yes," he answered hoarsely. "I was meant to accompany her that day, but I was not deemed quite suited for the task, considering my age, and was ordered to remain behind." Nîdhion took a seat and she followed suit, keeping her hand on his back. He cleared his throat and continued, "Nestadis never recovered. She walked into the House of Healing that day and has not left it since. Lord Elrond had one of the patient rooms renovated for privacy and moved her things into it when he noticed that she'd taken to sleeping in the patient cots. We worried she would fade from grief, but a year passed, and another, and still she lived. She is now the best healer Rivendell has ever known, excepting my lord Elrond, of course, and will heal any who seek her aid, especially those injured by Orcs; she loathes them above anything."

A sudden bolt of insight struck her, and Merrill recalled Nestadis' reaction to the Orc attack a few weeks prior. She'd appeared embattled, then; her skin gray, her eyes dull. Even her laughter had felt forced. Now she knew why; Nestadis had probably been reliving the day her daughter had died.

Merrill shook her head. "I would never have guessed… But what does it mean, to fade from grief?"

He stared at his hands, the firelight melting into his dark eyes. "Our fëa, our souls, are so deeply bound to our bodies, that a wound to our fëa is almost more dangerous. When an elf has lost someone they hold dear, a fëa mate or a child, they often die from grief, their souls depart to wait in the halls of Mandos for their rebirth to Elvenhome. You do not know this?"

Was there anything about this strange world that wouldn't scare her? "You're saying that if I fell in love with someone here, for example, and they died, I would die, too?"

He nodded. "If you were bonded, then yes, fading is often the result of such a loss."

She skipped right over the term 'bonded' because there was only so much she could take in at one time before her head exploded and privately thought that this new body of hers should have come with a terms and conditions manual.

"Excuse me, but what? What kind of crappy deck of cards are you all playing with? No one actually dies from grief – that's just something you see in the poetry of all those writers with Tuberculosis – not something that happens in reality. This world wasn't written by Byron or Keats, for god's sake!"

Nîdhion laughed wetly, wiping his eyes, and she gaped. "What do you find so funny? This is a nightmare!"

"You remind me so much of her, Merrill. Stubborn, willful, wild – loud," he teased, though his eyes glistened. "She clashed with those too intent on giving her orders, was fiercely independent, and deeply dedicated to those she loved. Everything she did, she did with haste, and the scent of Seregon clung to her clothing from her work in the House of Healing… as it does to yours."

Alarm bells went off in her head, and her eyes darted to the flowers he'd placed on her bedside table: Seregon flowers, their thick, red petals a dead give-away.

 _No way is he crushing on me… right?_

She glanced back at the flowers, their yellow centers eerily intent on her face, like the seagulls from _Finding Nemo_ , mocking her for her naivete, and quickly reviewed their interactions over the past few days; _had he said or done anything out of the ordinary?_

Memories of oddly solemn avowals of loyalty, of utmost devotion, ricocheted back to her like a tennis ball off a wall, beaming her square in the forehead with their conclusions.

 _He did. He did drop hints. I was just too stupid to notice._

 _Aw, hell._

He continued, oblivious, "From the moment I awoke in the clearing, from the moment I heard your song-"

Merrill leapt to her feet and interrupted, "You know what? I just remembered I have to go get fitted for another piece of armor. So, err..." She edged towards the door, doing her best to avoid his gaze. "Umm, thanks for the help!"

He stood, his brow wrinkled, and asked, "Would you care for some company?"

Merrill had managed to get the door open and had already backed most of the way out. "Nope. I'm good. It'll take a while, and I have to go someplace afterwards. But see you, err, later." She closed the door on Nîdhion's farewell and bolted like the coward she was.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I apologize for the extended wait. Life has been more than hectic lately, and I'm finding it difficult to keep up. Because you've all been so kind and patient, I'll try to upload another chapter sometime this week... maybe Wednesday?  
**

 **Thanks so much to all who faved, followed, and commented; your kindness and support are enormously appreciated!**

 **On to the reviews:**

 **Imladriss - Your review genuinely made me glow with pride and happiness. Thanks so much for your love of my story and my OC's, and for sharing it with me. It inspires me to continue writing, even when it's hard.  
**

 **Laurel1990 - So excited to receive your review! I love your GIME story, and am so pleased to hear that you love Ronny and Merrill! Thank you for reading, and thank you for your comment.**

 **Peygoodwin - Back at ya for the review ;)**

 **SarahELupin - Yass! Dad-Elrond is the best. Merrill and Ronny, both, needed a stabilizing influence, for one reason or another, and who better to provide it than he? Thanks so much for your comment!**

 **Leelee202 - Thanks so much! I'm still laying quite a bit of groundwork for later on, so I was concerned it might start to drag. Glad to see that that's not the case! :)**

 **Sweetserenity11 - Awww shucks! Pleased to see you like it so far! Look forward to more soon!**

 **SwanCall - Thanks for your comment! And, well... you're not wrong. Everyone's figuring some stuff out in the next few chapters. Hope you continue to enjoy!**

 **SakiHanajima1 - Thank you so much for the compliment! And, yes... those things will be explained later... :)**

 **d'elfe - Thank you! And, well, Glorfy gets SOMETHING... though not an apology... :) I promise, they'll be good later on. Just wait.**


	28. Chapter 28

**"The worst distance between two people is misunderstanding."**

 **― Neetesh Dixit**

* * *

ooOoo

Luckily for her, Honeycrisp was too shy to declare himself, and so their friendship continued. He visited her often during the last week she remained in Rivendell, taking her out riding, sneaking her pies, and even bringing her to the tailor's rooms to pet newborn kittens.

Merrill was glad for his company. She'd seen almost nothing of Radhrion since they'd last spoken, and had begun to believe he was avoiding her. He and Elrond, both, had even stopped attending meals in the common dining hall.

When she had finally worked up the nerve to ask Nestadis where they were, she'd claimed both were busy with preparations, but Merrill didn't believe her. They had always planned to leave at the end of December or the beginning of January, and had been amassing what items and foodstuffs they would need for weeks, now. So what could they possibly be working on that would require so much attention?

Merrill, starting to develop a complex, had even stopped by the table occupied by the Fellowship at breakfast three days before they were due to leave, hoping to make some inroads with the people she would soon be stuck with, but was met with stony expressions.

Boromir's eyes grew flinty, Aragorn focused intently upon his meal, chewing with deliberate force and gazing, abstractedly, into the middle ground, and the Hobbits, picking up on the party line, were polite, but disinterested in furthering their acquaintance.

Legolas remained mostly pleasant, though distracted. He continued to instruct her in archery, though he informed her she had attained an impressive level of proficiency with the bow and hardly required his aid. He probably meant just what he said, but Merrill, feeling the pariah, took it to mean he was too polite to tell her he wanted nothing to do with her and began avoiding him.

All in all, Merrill spent the last few days she had in Rivendell skulking around corners and ducking into doorways to avoid those with whom she would shortly be trekking across the country.

On the day before they were due to depart, Merrill was busy in the House of Healing, otherwise known as her refuge. If she was covered to the wrist in someone else's blood, she found her mind didn't wander, and her heart didn't hurt.

Nestadis welcomed her upon her return by barking out a dozen orders which sent her scurrying, but she had been glad to be back in a place that still made sense to her.

But her sanctuary lost some of its attraction when she turned to call the next patient and was met with the sober silver eyes of the Lord of Rivendell, himself.

"Good day, Merrill."

Her fists clenched, but she nodded curtly and strode past him, busying herself with a supply sheet and shrouding herself in the 'too busy to be disturbed' attitude she'd perfected at her first job as a student librarian in high school.

"May we speak, Merrill?"

Merrill slashed an item off the list. "It's a free country."

Elrond took a hesitant step closer, his voice low. "I know you are upset with me, and I came here to apologize, and to explain, if you will allow me to do so. Might we speak somewhere more private?"

"Sorry. Nestadis needs this done before I leave, and then I have to, you know, organize my sock drawer and alphabetize my tunics by color and cloth, so, you see, it's kind of a busy time for me just now." She picked up another sheet and called, "Tarn, Son of Tyrn?"

An elderly human hobbled over to her and she led him by the elbow to a bed. But just as he sat, Nestadis gripped her arm and towed her into her study.

"You may speak here," she announced over Merrill's protestations. "Please take your time." The door closed behind her with an audible 'click', leaving Elrond and Merrill to stare awkwardly at one another.

"I apologize for not having spoken to you sooner," Elrond offered, linking his hands before him. "Whenever I have looked for you, you were nowhere to be found."

Merrill took a seat behind Nestadis' desk and said to the floor, "Did it ever occur to you that that might have been done purposefully? I mean, you all made it crystal freaking clear that you thought I was a freak, or dangerous, or whatever, so why would I seek you out?"

"Merrill, please look at me," he asked.

She met his eyes with bad grace.

"I thank you. We do not believe you to be abnormal or dangerous. In fact, we have been occupied with planning, devising ways in which you might best be kept safe. That is why you have not seen much of myself or Radhrion of late. No matter how much we thought, though, it was clear that you would have to leave. Saruman has most definitely felt your presence, and to stay any longer would mean your death. Understand, please, that I do not wish you to go." He smiled warmly at her, eyes gentle. "If I could, I would offer you a permanent place in my home, but I'm afraid it is no longer safe, and we will not stay here long after you have left us."

Merrill was curious despite herself. "What do you mean?"

Elrond indicated the chair opposite her. "May I sit?"

When Merrill agreed, he sat, setting his elbow on the arm to rest his head in his palm. "My people's time in Middle Earth draws to a close. We cannot long survive the evil coming out of Mordor, so we shall sail west, to Elvenhome, to Valinor, where we shall dwell for the rest of time."

Merrill dimly recollected something about this. "I remember… Yes. You want Arwen to leave, but she refuses."

"How do you know of this?"

"Oh, it's a weird, other-world thing. I know a little about what happens here."

Elrond leaned forward, silver eyes as sharp as a knife on her face. "Please explain."

So she did. Merrill told him about the books and the movies, though she found it difficult to describe the latter, and how she knew them, himself included, from her perusal of the aforementioned objects.

However, he raised his hand to stop her when she began to tell him the details. "No, Merrill. You musn't tell anyone about this foreknowledge of yours; you must swear it."

Merrill was taken aback by the ferocity of his tone. "You're the only one I've said anything to. I'm not completely stupid, you know. I've seen Doctor Who, I get it."

Elrond covered his eyes with his hands. "I did not expect to learn something else which would put your life at further risk when I came to speak with you today," he said, his voice tired. "If you were to be captured…" He let the sentence hang between them like a corpse; a rotting, bloated, stinking corpse just recently dredged up from the sewers—neither wished to acknowledge it, but could do nothing else.

He didn't need to finish his sentence, not really. Merrill knew what he meant. Her knowledge, though foggy in some places, could change the whole course of the story if she were to fall into the wrong hands. If Saruman or, gods forbid, Sauron captured her, they would know everything. Frodo and Sam would be captured, tortured, then brutally killed, and the ring would be back where it wished to be: on its' masters hand. She was dangerous, and she finally agreed with him: she needed to get out of Rivendell immediately.

"I'm only staying with them as far as Lothlorien, then I'm out. I won't be captured between here and there, and isn't Galadriel's domain one of the safest places on Middle Earth?" She asked, trying for optimism. "Once I make it there, she'll tell me how to get home and then I won't even be in this world, anymore, so I won't be able to screw anything up."

Elrond lifted his face from his hands and asked curiously, "You wish to leave, then?"

Merrill rolled a feather quill between her palms while she considered her reply; it wasn't as simple as it seemed, after all. Yes, she wanted to go home, yes, she wanted to stay in Rivendell, yes, she wanted to go to Lothlorien. But she did not wish to travel with the Fellowship any longer, nor did she wish to brave the wilds with Elrond's guards. It was the sort of dilemma therapists had been invented for, but, unfortunately for her, they did not exist in Middle Earth.

"I don't want to leave, but I do. I want to go home, but I'm terrified of leaving Rivendell… and I don't know if Radhrion wants me to go with them, anymore. Basically, I don't know anything." Merrill knocked her head against the desk a few times, then peered out from the mess of her hair at Elrond. "Does that answer your question?"

"It does, my dear." Elrond stood gracefully, his sapphire robes sighing as he leant over her chair to kiss her forehead, his black hair mingling briefly with her own. "I shall miss you, Merrill. You filled my home with your exuberance, your spirit, and your youth, and breathed fresh life into us all. Guren glassui īsedh." (1)

"You know I have no idea what you just said," she sniffled.

"I do," he replied, smirking as he backed towards the door. "But even I must enjoy myself, sometimes."

Merrill's head snapped up, eyes alight with half-hearted accusation. "I knew it! You guys have been talking about me the entire time! Now I wish I'd taken you up on your offer to teach me Elvish."

Elrond smiled enigmatically over his shoulder. "When I am upset, I spend much time in the chestnut grove to the West of here. The trees there are hospitable even in Winter, the breeze is fresh and warm, and the ground is soft with moss. I have long found it to be the perfect place for constructive contemplation and peaceful resolution."

"Ummm," Merrill said, drawing out the sound. "Did I miss something? Or are you stroking out?"

He stepped out through the door and called as it shut, "Go, now. You never know who you might meet in the moonlight."

* * *

ooOoo

If you follow the vague and mysterious advice of an enigmatic elf lord, you won't have to give a mouse a cookie, but you will have to meet with an estranged friend and maturely navigate the murky waters of misunderstanding, which is often the more onerous task between the two.

Ever curious, a trait which had lead her into trouble on more than one occasion, Merrill took Elrond's cryptic advice and made her way to the chestnut grove, only stopping off at her room to change out of her apprentice healer's green robes and into a maroon tunic and brown breeches.

She faced the mirror and examined herself. The ends of her previously shoulder length, black, curly hair now touched her lower back, a development she determined to rectify as soon as she could convince someone to trim it for her, and she'd grown so tall that she had to stoop to peer into her vanity. When she had arrived in Middle Earth, she had been 5'7". Now, Merrill was pushing 6'3".

These changes, drastic though they appeared, still weren't as jarring as what had happened to her previously perfectly average face; just looking into a mirror these days left Merrill feeling as though she were staring at a stranger.

She wouldn't call herself pretty, per se, just… exotic. The cast of her eyes had shifted ever so slightly, making them appear larger, her face, itself, had lengthened in proportion to her growth spurt, and her cheekbones, which she had only vaguely knew existed back home, had emerged, bringing with them a foreign slant to her features that Merrill believed would be better suited to Swedish super models or actors playing aliens in sci-fi films.

Merrill had also gained some weight. She was heavier than many of the elves she had come across (excepting almost all of the guard, Legolas, and Glorfindel), as far as she could tell. This did not upset her, though; she appreciated the distinction, the reminder, that, despite her current appearance, she was most definitely NOT an elf. It was good to remember, every now and again; living with other elves, and with others who thought of her as an elf, tended to make her forget that she was still human underneath. And that frightened her, because if she could forget that, what else could be lost?

Merrill wrapped a gray wool cloak around her shoulders and set off towards the chestnut grove, her thoughts maudlin, her demeanor grave.

Who was she, now? What was she? Nestadis claimed she could raise the dead, and had done so, though it nearly cost her her own life. So what did that make her? Was she a witch or something? And why hadn't anyone wanted to talk to her about it?

Elrond claimed no one was frightened of her, but Merrill couldn't help it; she felt like some sort of leper. The Fellowship, some of whom had seemed quite willing to accept her when she'd first met them, for the most part, now treated her with disdain. And Radhrion… well, she hadn't seen him in days, since he'd told her to speak with Nestadis, in fact.

Merrill crossed over one of the many footbridges in Rivendell and stopped in the middle of a great grove of Chestnuts. The moon rode atop a mass of snow-white clouds, and the starry sky could be seen through the skeletal branches; the winter air was so fresh and clear that, if she had wanted to, Merrill could have numbered the stars until sunrise.

The forest floor had the usual covering of dead leaves and other detritus, but great, billowy mounds of reddish moss spread right up to the tree roots, providing something like a natural cushion.

Merrill sat atop one such mound and scooted back until her spine fit the curve of the trunk behind her, and gazed up at the stars, dropping into the silence as a pebble might drop into a well.

Elrond had been right; it was warmer, somehow, amidst the chestnuts. Merrill allowed herself to relax…

"Merrill?"

She didn't bother opening her eyes; a part of her had known who Elrond had sent her to meet, for it couldn't have been anyone else, really.

"Hey," she replied quietly, unwilling to break the peace she'd found.

A warm weight settled beside her, and the smell of pine trees floated to her nose.

"Do you have everything packed for tomorrow?"

Merrill opened her eyes and stared up into the sky. "The year I turned seven, my dad took me camping. I don't remember much of it," she said, smiling wistfully at her hands, "or much of him, to be honest, but I do remember the stars. To my seven year old self, they were the first ones I'd ever seen. I'd grown up in the city, you see, and the lights in the sky I thought were stars were almost anything but. We stayed up way past my bedtime that night, we ate s'mores, and I fell asleep on him as he told me their stories." Merrill pulled her knees close to her chest and rested her chin on them. "I woke in the middle of the night and couldn't find him anywhere. I panicked. I thought he'd been eaten by bears or bigfoot. I tried to find him, but I was too scared to leave our campsite; I worried he might come back while I was gone. So I stayed. I waited for him to come back until the sky had just begun to turn gray."

"Did he come back?"

Merrill nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah."

When no further questions were forthcoming, she sighed and finally met Radhrion's worried, cloud-grey eyes. "Yes, I'm packed. You don't have to worry."

Radhrion fiddled with the ring on his finger, spinning it round, and round, and round; the gold reflecting the night sky above. "Why did you tell me this?" he questioned gently.

She shrugged, but didn't meet his eyes. "That day, I ran off even though my dad told me not to. I wanted to see the river, and I was bored waiting for him to finish unpacking. I remember how angry he was when he found me, and I remember thinking when I couldn't find him that night that he might have left because I'd upset him." Merrill stroked the soft moss beside her absently.

"Ahh," Radhrion exhaled, the sound blending in with the night air as understanding dawned. He tucked her head onto his shoulder and wrapped an arm around her. "And was that the case?"

Merrill shook her head, and if her voice sounded stuffy, Radhrion was polite enough not to mention it. "No. He said he'd just gone to the bathroom."

Radhrion pulled her closer. "What is his name?"

"Elijah Mabray. He was a surgeon."

"And what of his family? Your grandparents, I mean," he amended when she gave him a quizzical look.

"My grandparents? I thought I told you about them. Grandpa Park and Grandma Bee?"

She felt him shake his head, his cheek mussing her hair. "No, I meant your father's parents. Did you know them?"

"Not at all. My dad was an orphan," Merrill explained shortly, flicking a piece of dirt off her breeches.

"Oh… well, what more can you tell me of your father?"

Merrill pulled away to look at him suspiciously. "You writing a book, or what?"

Radhrion fiddled with his ring again. "Well, the manner in which you speak of him seems to me to suggest he might possibly have passed away."

Merrill shredded a dead leaf between her fingers, her jaw tight, her eyes dull. "Nope. Just left one day. No reason, no note or letter that my mother told me about, nothing."

"You have my sympathies."

She scoffed, "I don't need them. It was a long time ago." Merrill got to her feet and brushed her breeches of for something to do.

The forest lit up noticeably as the clouds drew back from the moon's face; moonbeams draped themselves like pale silk along the branches and flowed like molten silver atop the earth.

When the moonlight dimmed and the silence had stretched out too long, she faced him and asked carefully, "So… Are we good? You know, with me singing Orcs back to life and whatnot?"

He grinned, his teeth white in the growing dark. "As long as you promise not to bring any of those _I_ kill back to life, then we are more than good, my dear."

The weight she'd carried for the past week lifted and she could breathe freely once more. She offered her hand and he accepted, pulling himself up and ruffling her hair affectionately.

"Shall we return? We depart quite early, tomorrow."

Merrill linked her arm through his and pulled, the beginnings of mischief fluttering around her lips. "There's something I want to do first…"

* * *

 **A/N:**

 _ **1\. My heart is glad to know you.**_

 **BOOM! Here's another chapter for you lovelies, just because you're all so sweet and supportive. :) I actually just managed to write for the first time in MONTHS! AND Nightingale will have been out for 5 months in 2 days! Hooray!**

 **Anyway, I put you all on notice: next chapter the party in Rivendell is over, and the Fellowship is officially on its way. I hope you like it.**

 **Leelee202 - DUDE. You're not wrong... :) Good call.**

 **AmberRose - Thanks for the review! And we'll be out of Rivendell by the end of the next chapter, and fully travelling by chapter 30!**

 **Kaikitty165 - I just wrote a scene you're gonna LOVE if you love their interactions... :) You'll probably see it in two more chapters. Hope you continue to enjoy!**

 **SarahELupin - Lol, it totally does. And Merrill is not the most... mature in her handling of the situation, for sure. Thanks for the review!**

 **LostGirlSoul - Thanks for the enthusiastic review! Love it! The elves, in my book, are, as Tolkien implies, simply MORE than humans in every way. So it makes sense to me that they would have difficulty regulating their emotions. Plus, it explains the kinslayings to some degree, as well. :)**

 **LeePaceFan - First of all, ME TOO (meaning I am also a Lee Pace fan; what a cutie!). Secondly, thanks for the review! Thirdly, I see your 'sparkles' and raise you a few 'twinkles'. ;)**

 **And, as always, best wishes ~**


	29. Chapter 29

**"This house**  
 **She's holding secrets**  
 **I got my change behind the bed**

 **In a coffee can**  
 **I throw my nickels in**  
 **Just in case I have to leave**

 **And I will go if you ask me to**  
 **I will stay if you dare**  
 **And if I go I'm goin shameless**  
 **I'll let my hunger take me there."**

 **-Gregory Alan Isakov, 'If I go, I'm goin'.**

* * *

ooOoo

The day of their departure found Merrill snuggled on the steps beside the stables, clutching grumpily at the neck of her cloak to ward off the chill, her bags stacked beside her.

Radhrion bounced from bag to bag, muttering under his breath about hard tack, jerky, and the number of blankets required. He glanced over at Merrill, who blinked up at him owlishly from her nest of cloaks and scarves, frowning with all her might, before dashing back into the manor, leaving her with only Gimli for company.

The dwarf in question sat beside her, running a whetstone along the edge of his axe and growling at any who spoke to him, though he let Merrill rest her head on his shoulder.

The hobbits had gathered around a small fire a ways off, speaking quietly under their breath while Sam fussed with one of his many pans. Suddenly, they all stood, helping one of their number to his feet, and Merrill discerned a small, snowy-haired hobbit with a cane waving them off. Frodo leant down and kissed both of his cheeks and realization smacked her; this elderly hobbit could be none other than Bilbo Baggins.

She watched as Frodo lead his uncle back up the stairs and nearly laughed aloud when they met with a frantic Radhrion, a stack of blankets and cloaks in his arms. Bilbo patted his old friend on the arm and then beckoned him close. Radhrion leant down, noticeably calming at the hobbit's words. Then Bilbo kissed his cheek and continued up the stairs with his nephew, and Radhrion returned to the packs, folding his latest additions before stuffing them in wherever they might fit.

Merrill turned her gaze on Boromir, who stood at the top of the stairs, checking and re-checking his pack. He removed 6 daggers from his boots, checking each before replacing them, then removed four from each sleeve, and one from behind his neck, doing the same.

He looked up just once, meeting her eyes, before turning away, a sneer on his lips.

 _Well, it's not like I didn't know the guy hates me. Not that knowing is going to make this trip with him any easier. He definitely seems like someone who coddles and indulges his grudges._

A noise from the stables alerted her to a hushed conversation being held between Legolas and Aragorn. Merrill strained her ears to catch their words, but gave up when she recognized elvish.

Legolas squeezed Aragorn's shoulder before disappearing further into the stable, but Aragorn remained where he was, stroking the nose of a big, black horse soothingly.

"Goheno nin, mellon, but you must remain behind."

The horse whinnied, stamping a hoof in emphatic refusal.

Aragorn stroked his neck, smiling sadly. "I know, Daeroc. But it is for the best. Stay here, grow fat on sweet, elven grain, run in the flower-filled meadows of the hidden valley, feel the warm sunlight on your back. I promise to return."

The horse lowered his head until he had fixed one of his eyes imperiously on Aragorn's own. He huffed twice, blowing warm breath and snot onto the man's tunic.

Aragorn chuckled and hugged the creature's neck, surprising Merrill, who had never before heard him evince sounds of true joy.

Merrill's gaze wandered until it landed on Legolas, who smiled warmly in welcome, holding something in his hand. Something in her stomach clenched at the gladness she read in the sparkling blue depths of his eyes, but before she could so much as stand Radhrion was at her elbow, tugging her away.

"My dear, I think you will enjoy this. Follow me." Radrhion took her hand and lead her hurriedly back up the stairs.

"Slow down, Ronny! It's too damn early for sprinting!" she whined.

He pushed her through an open doorway onto a circular, stone patio. "Oh, stop complaining. This is worth it, I swear."

"Oh my god," Merrill breathed, staring slack-jawed at the scene before her.

Radhrion bounced on the balls of his feet, grinning infectiously. "I _know_. Come."

Elrond looked over his shoulder, and the giant eagle with which he conversed turned one, golden eye on them both as they approached.

Radhrion bowed, his hand over his heart, and said something in Elvish before dragging her forward. "Merrill, this is Lord Gwaihir, King of the Great Eagles and a dear friend."

Merrill's throat closed in fear, so she bowed low and tried not to meet its eyes.

 _What a weird time to remember Buckbeak and Draco Malfoy,_ she thought giddily. _As long as I'm respectful, and don't make eye contact, I should be alright… right? Or does that not apply to giant eagles? Dammit! Why didn't Newt Scamander ever write a field guide for the 'Fantastic Beasts' of Middle Earth?!_

Radhrion continued, blissfully unaware of her predicament. "And Lord Gwaihir, this is Merilinith, ward to both myself and Lord Elrond."

The great eagle, his russet feathers shining in the light of the sun, shuffled forward, his sharp claws shrieking against the smooth granite of the floor until he was less than an arm's length from her. He leaned forward, breathing her in, then suddenly withdrew, his great wings beating in what she could only think was astonishment.

"My lord? What is –" Elrond began, but the eagle was already returning, coming to a halt before her.

"Ummm," Merrill squeaked, not daring to make eye contact. "Did I pass the test? Or is he gonna eat me?" she hissed at Radhrion.

"Don't be silly, little bird," Radhrion reprimanded gently.

Gwaihir ran his beak through her curls, the sharp curve brushing her jaw and making her shudder; all he had to do was snap down, and she'd be dead.

Then the eagle did something she hadn't expected: it spoke in Elvish.

"… He says that he is glad to know any hatchling of mine," Radhrion translated, clearly baffled. "And he wishes you to meet his gaze."

Merrill swallowed but did as he asked. Golden eyes met and held her own, and something like a warm breeze swept through her mind, leaving it more peaceful than it had been in days.

"He says he wishes to show you his eyrie, some day," Elrond supplied, his stare suggesting he was reevaluating everything he knew about her.

"Oh," Merrill said stupidly, her mind scrambling for something appropriate to say. "Well, thanks. I'd love to. I'm sure it's lovely."

Radhrion murmured into her ear, and Merrill cleared her throat and said somewhat formally, "May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks." (1)

The lord of eagles fluffed up at this, his feathers rustling, his proud head held high, before he leant down and nipped affectionately at her hair.

Merrill's hands flew to her head, her fingertips catching the ends of a shorn curl. "Hey! You just took a piece of my hair!"

Gwaihir snorted delicately, extended his wings, and then launched himself up and into the sky, disappearing over the trees.

After a few seconds of awed silence, Elrond said with forced cheerfulness, "Well, I think that is enough surprises for one day, don't you?"

The door behind them crashed into the wall and Glorfindel stormed forward, his eyes like shards of ice, his long, violet hair streaming behind him. "You foul girl! I know it was you!"

Elrond rubbed the wrinkle between his brow with one finger, shaking his head. "I knew it was too good to be true," he lamented.

Radhrion and Merrill avoided one another's gaze studiously.

Merrill asked sweetly, "Whatever do you mean, Glorfy?"

"Yes, Glorfindel. We, neither of us, have the foggiest idea what you mean," Radhrion said, his smile showing off every one of his strong, white teeth.

The huge, fuming, previously golden elf yanked his long mane forward, pointing at it with his free hand. "Do you see this?"

Merrill and Radhrion pretended to examine the mass of violet waves with some concern.

"Wow." Merrill grinned wickedly. "'You're violet, Violet!'" (2)

"You might want to speak with Arwen," Radhrion said as he tucked Merrill's hand in his arm and began to lead her from the room. "I hear she has suffered from such tricks before."

"It really brings out your eyes," Merrill added before the door closed behind them. "Bye, Glorfy!"

Radhrion broke out into a run, his hand still wrapped in hers, and she followed, laughing all the while.

* * *

"There you are!"

Radhrion pulled up short and Merrill ploughed into his back at full speed.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, rubbing at her poor nose with both hands.

"We'd quite despaired of you," Gandalf continued, smiling a small smile at Merrill's antics.

"We apologize, Mithrandir. I wished Merrill to meet Lord Gwaihir. He arrived not ten minutes ago to report on Orc activity along our path." Radhrion shook his head, his dark hair falling over his shoulders, his joyful aspect dimming. "The news is not good, I fear. We shall have to attempt the mountain pass."

Gandalf did not appear to take this news amiss; he merely nodded his understanding, his mouth growing grim. "It is as I feared, then. But this is a worry we have ample time to consider. For now, there are those who wish to bid us farewell, and the open road awaiting our feet." He leaned around Radhrion slightly. "Merrill, dear? Might I borrow Radhrion? There are several tedious bits of business I must discuss with him."

Merrill nodded and let Radhrion's hand fall. "Sure thing."

"Also, there is someone who wishes to speak with you," Gandalf indicated the stables with one, gnarled finger, and Merrill followed his eyes until they landed on Nîdhion, who sprung up expectantly, a flower in his hand.

Merrill murmured her thanks and picked her way through the mess of packs and people scattered between them, dodging a few hobbits along the way.

Nîdhion met her halfway, offering her the Seregon flower wordlessly, his dark eyes clear, but sad.

She took it, averting her eyes. "So… I guess this is it," Merrill began clumsily.

"I do not believe that, Merrill. Not at all." He plucked the flower from her nervous fingers and tucked it behind her ear, pausing to examine her newly shortened curl. "What happened to your lovely hair?"

Merrill pulled the curl to the front of her face, her lips twisting at the sight; that eagle had really taken quite a chunk. Now it looked like she had a strange cowlick at the side of her head that might once have been bangs. _Lovely_.

She shrugged and joked, "It's all the rage in the eyrie, I hear."

Nîdhion blinked, smiling in confusion. "I still hardly understand a word you say, my friend, but I shall miss you, all the same." He pulled her into his arms, his cheek pressed to her own, and whispered fervently, "I know in my heart that this is not our final parting, but it does not make thoughts of your absence easier to bear."

Merrill patted him awkwardly on the back, glaring daggers at Gimli, who was laughing so hard he had doubled over, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his face.

Doing her best to ignore her dwarven friend, Merrill replied kindly, "That's how all partings are, Honeycrisp. But I promise to be careful. And you, too. You be careful – don't get injured trying to rescue stupid girls who don't have the sense to stay on their horses." Merrill lowered her voice so only he could hear and added, "And try to be happy, again, won't you? She would want you to be."

He nodded against her shoulder and Merrill pressed a kiss to his warm, brown cheek.

"You take care of yourself, Nîdhion." She pulled back, wiping the tears from his face with her thumbs before turning to her pack, her heart heavy; she shouldn't have made friends, here. It only made this harder.

Shouldering her main healer's kit, she went to stand beside Legolas who wordlessly handed her a still-warm bun, his dark eyes thoughtful and intent on her face. He raised his hand as if to touch her, but then stopped and allowed his hand to fall, returning his gaze to the assembly gathered in front of them. Before she could question his expression, Elrond began to speak.

"Friends, it is time for you to depart, but we would not have you leave us without having done everything within our power to ease your journey."

Elrond gestured, and an elf stepped forward, a sword held in his hand, which he presented to a shocked Aragorn, who took the blade in his hands as one might a newborn babe.

"This is Anduril, Flame of the West, reforged from the shattered remnants of Narsil, sword of your kin. May it serve you well in the dark days ahead. Go with my blessing, Estel. Law firo i laiss e-guil lîn." (3)

"Galo Anor erin râd lîn," Aragorn said, bowing his head to accept Elrond's kiss reverentially. (4)

He returned to their line, but his eyes flicked from one face to another, never resting long before flitting to another.

Merrill's heart twinged when she realized he was scanning the crowd for one elleth, in particular, whose eyes were bluer than the night sky, and whose hair fell in shadows down her back.

But she wasn't there. Aragorn's gaze fell to examining the stone beneath his feet; he did not look up again.

Next came Gimli, who received a silver flask of their finest mead, which he accepted with a snort and a scowl.

After him, came Legolas, whose gift was passed from Elladan's hands directly to his own, and was small enough to be concealed within his palm. Elrohir whispered something into Legolas' ear and Elladan punched him playfully in the shoulder.

When Legolas returned to his spot by her side, his expression was miles past bemused and teetering towards bewildered.

Frodo and the other hobbits each received small, but thoughtful, gifts; daggers, elf-spun wool blankets, pipe weed, and the like – the comforts they would most miss on their journey.

At Elrond's insistence, Boromir accepted a compact book of poetry, which left him even more speechless than usual, much to Merrill's surprise; he just didn't seem like someone who enjoyed poetry to her.

And then came Radhrion, who accepted the sword Elrond held out to him with more joy than she had expected.

"I have kept it safe in anticipation of your return, my dear friend. But it is now time you took it up in defense of our world once again." Elrond's voice grew sad, and he said earnestly, "If I could, I would have the world be so that you need never draw it. Ni dem angin." _(5)  
_

Radhrion slid the shining, silver blade from its' red leather sheath and ran his eyes along every inch, buffing out imaginary imperfections with the application of his breath and a good scrubbing of his thumb. When he managed to tear his eyes away, they shone with unshed tears. Without warning, he wrapped his arms about Elrond, kissing his forehead before releasing him.

"Avo dhavo am môr, miluihûn. Savo amdir." (6)

A shadow of grief passed through Elrond's silver eyes like a gust of wind in an empty room, but his lips smiled, and he kissed Radhrion's cheeks and spoke quietly to him, grasping his hand tightly.

Radhrion rejoined her, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, but smiled when he caught her watching him.

Which is when Elrond waved his hand for the last time. Cailiel stepped to his side, a graceful, white bow held reverently across her forearms. She met Merrill's eyes cautiously and offered a timid smile; Merrill, unsure of what it meant, smiled back just as tentatively.

"This," Elrond said, taking the bow in his hands, "is Calavailë – Windsong. It was my father's bow, left behind before he departed and kept by Maedhros the Tall after the sacking of the Havens of Sirion." Elrond gestured Merrill forward amidst the eerie silence of the wide-eyed assemblage. "The inscription reads: _Draw me not without reason. Sheathe me not without honor._ It is made of dragon horn, a material famed for its strength and flexibility." He placed it in her hands and kissed her forehead tenderly. "May it serve you well in the dark days ahead, Lady Nightingale, as it served my father, and as it has served me." (7)

Merrill started to shove it back into his hands, shaking her head emphatically. "No, no, no – I can't accept this. It was your dads, you should keep it or, errr, give it to your kids."

Elrohir laughed. "Oh dear, sweet, little Merrill, our father's gifts are his to give to whom he will. Do not refuse on that account."

Elladan elbowed his brother in the side and said more seriously, "We, neither of us, begrudge you this gift, Merrill. It is as my tactless brother has said: it is my fathers to give. Also, we are both rather too large to use it effectively. It is more suited to someone of your size." He ruffled her hair and stooped a little to meet her eyes. "Besides, it is a comfort to know that you will have it, should the need to defend yourself arise. It will not miss its target if the heart of the one who wields it is pure."

Elladan kissed her cheek, as did Elrohir, before stepping back and allowing their father to say his own farewells.

His silver eyes were glassy, but his voice was steady. "I hope you find that which you seek, Merrill."

Merrill glared hard at the bow in her hands, her eyes burning, her throat tight. "There aren't words," she began, swallowing around the lump in her throat and averting her face to blink her tears away. Because there really weren't words that would encompass all of the gratitude she felt for him; it was too large a feeling.

Merrill threw her arms around him and buried her nose in the silk of his robes. "Thank you for _everything_ ," she whispered hoarsely. "Gods – just for everything. I was never so lucky as when I landed in your woods."

Elrond kissed her forehead, smoothing her hair back from her face when she broke their embrace with careful hands. "You are more than welcome. Farewell, Merrill. Go with my blessing."

But Merrill couldn't bring herself to move; the enormity of what she was about to do hit her like a glove full of rocks to the face. She was about to embark on a wildly dangerous quest, in the company of men who did not like, nor approve of, her, all so she could reach another elven realm and speak to a sorceress about teleporting back home.

There were orcs, and trolls, and goblins out there, none of whom would care to differentiate between civilians and warriors before rending limbs from bodies. Plus, there was the added disadvantage of the fallen wizard whose eyes now searched for both herself AND the ring, so there was that. Icy fear crawled down her legs and into her feet; it felt like hundreds of centipedes were burrowing into her veins. She could not move.

Radhrion took her hand and lead her back to the others, most of whom would not meet her eyes.

"Come, my dear," he murmured, settling her new bow and quiver across her back. "It is time."

Merrill put one foot in front of the other at his urging, numb from the waist up, but he kept her hand in his. She could not bring herself to look back, but neither could she look forward, so she settled for staring at her boots.

There was something about this feeling that put her in mind of her first day in Middle Earth – the day she'd met Radhrion. But there was no grief, then; only terror, anger, confusion, and disbelief.

 _Why did I try so hard to come on this quest? I worked myself to death to convince everyone, and now I would give anything to be back in the House of Healing, covered in blood, puke, and pus, listening to Nestadis berate a new apprentice for his clumsy use of the alembic._

 _What happens next in the movies?_ Merrill strained, but all she could come up with was the Balrog and Moria. _But how long does it take for us to get there from Rivendell?_ She wondered, glancing at Gandalf, who strode confidently at the front of their party, his staff thumping against the earth. _And should I say anything to him about the Balrog? Or his death? He does die, right? I know he does in the movies, but gods damn it, I can't remember if he does in the book… he probably does, right?_

Radhrion nudged her with his elbow and pointed out a cloud. "It resembles Tuiliel, doesn't it?"

Merrill smiled despite herself. _Ah, that is why I came. For better or worse, Radhrion and I are in this together._

She bumped against his shoulder in reply and took a deep, steadying breath, finally lifting her gaze from the forest floor and taking in the woods around her. _We'll get through this together, or not at all._

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Five months of Nightingale in the world as of today! Aaaaand we're out of Rivendell!**

 **So I added the part where Merrill ploughs into Radhrion as a sort of 'We've come full circle' thing. Just wanted to mention it in case anyone wondered why it sounded familiar.**

 **And the part with the eagles is actually totally possible. Gwaihir's eyrie is quite close to Rivendell, and, according to my research, the eagles did help Elrond in this way before the Fellowship left.**

 **Also, I won't be able to post for another two or three weeks; midterms, group projects galore, and family stuff. But I'll try to keep writing so I have more to share with you when I return!**

 **Thanks, as always, for the faves, follows, and reviews! They spur me on like nothing else.  
**

 **(1) A formal greeting exchanged between the eagles according to Tolkien.**

 **(2) An allusion to the 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory' movie.**

 **(3) _May the leaves of your life never die. (f)_**

 **(4) _May the sun shine on your path. (f)_**

 **(5) _I am sad for you. (i)._**

 **(6) _Do not yield to darkness, dear heart. Have hope._**

 **(7) Okay, briefly, (because I plan to make my own Appendices later on :)) I made up the name of the bow, but the bow itself actually existed, though Tolkien never mentioned, to my knowledge, what happened to it. So, in my version, Maedhros picked it up at the same time he snagged Elrond and Elros for his own and gave it to Elrond later on. I chose to name the bow in Quenya because that was Earendil's (Elrond's dad) first language. Also, it really was made of dragon horn, according to Tolkien's poem on the subject. As for the inscription, I borrowed it from a few swords found in various archaeological digs, including one in the Midwestern United States. I just really liked the message. Also, in case you don't know, the reason everyone gets really quiet when he gives her the bow is because no one was really a fan of Maedhros; he was a son of Feanor and was basically the reason Elrond and Elros lost their parents, sooooo, it's a little awkward. But, from all I've read, I think Elrond was able to sort of compartmentalize the situation and retain some feeling for the man who raised him.**

 **Best wishes to you all~**


	30. Chapter 30

**"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware."**

 **\- Martin Buber**

* * *

ooOoo

After what felt like hours, Aragorn called a halt and stepped to the side of the path to confer with Gandalf, whose lips were pursed in concern.

Merrill flung herself onto the ground, not even caring that her pack was digging into her back or that her sweaty face and arms were now liberally coated with dirt and dust.

The sky above was tinged with orange, a sure sign that night was rapidly drawing close, and Merrill groaned, feeling well and truly put upon.

 _Are we going to walk all night? Surely there wasn't this much walking in the films. And why in the hell did we not bring horses? The stables had plenty._

She rubbed at the tight muscles in her thighs with a resentful hand and finally took in her surroundings.

To her immediate left stood Radhrion, his back to the proceedings, eyes sharp on the forest around them. The moment they'd exited the safety of Rivendell's borders, his playful, chatty demeanor had transformed drastically, becoming more and more grave.

Though he stayed primarily by her side, they hadn't spoken much. He moved branches from her path, took her elbow when he thought she might need help traversing a particularly rocky patch, and regularly pulled her closer to him when she strayed, but maintained a strictly watchful silence.

Merrill understood, of course, this change in her friend; he was merely doing as he had promised he would: keeping her safe. But she would kill for just the slightest bit of conversation, the slightest distraction, to keep her from obsessing over every little noise.

The others were wholly absorbed in their duties, as well. Gimli, seemingly perfectly at ease, stood guard beside Radhrion, a short, Dwarven pipe set between his teeth, one of his hand axes out and held firmly in hand, and a smile on his lips. Of course her crazy, Dwarven friend would like this; the atmosphere was one of strained expectancy. They all knew it was only a matter of time before they were set upon by the enemy; with every hour that passed without detection, the tension grew. But this was his element. He wanted nothing more than to make his ancestors proud, to do his duty and protect those he had sworn to protect. And if that meant he had to bust open a few Orc heads, then all the better.

Merrill shook her head and turned her attention to Aragorn. The ranger stood off to the side with Gandalf, his expression wary and grim. Whatever the wizard said was clearly expected, though unwished for, and he nodded grimly and murmured something below his breath, his gray eyes catching hers. Merrill met them, nodded, then continued to scan the gathering; no matter how much the others disapproved of her presence, she refused to be cowed. Yes, perhaps her presence complicated things a bit, but others, powerful others, had agreed with her wish to travel with the Fellowship, had good reason to do so, and she would not feel guilty that she had gotten her way for the rest of this miserable trek; she planned to use the time more wisely.

At this thought, Merrill groaned and got to her feet. It was time to start proving herself.

She nodded at Radhrion, whose eyes narrowed as she moved away, but he made no move to follow, and soon she was alone, the forest breathing around her.

 _I should try to gather what I can, while I can; who knows when I'll have another opportunity to forage? And, if I'm remembering the movie correctly, I'm going to need whatever I can lay my hands on for Moria… and, well, I certainly won't be using my spirit healing again anytime soon; Nestadis seemed pretty damn certain it would kill me if I tried._

Merrill shoved that thought out of her head, unwilling to confront her brush with death, and strode into the thicket nearest her, scanning the undergrowth for useful herbs or fungi.

Winter had sent many of the more common ones into slumber, but Merrill knew, if she was lucky, she might find Athelas, an uncommonly rare plant whose properties bordered on the mystical if the one using it knew what they were doing.

Merrill pushed aside a swathe of foliage and discovered a large grouping of brown thistle. Happily, she reached for the base of the plant and tugged, revealing a long, dirty root. Burdock was similar to artichokes, she'd learned, and was best roasted or dried and stewed for tea as a powerful blood and liver cleanser.

She tucked a few roots into her bag, pushing her braid back over her shoulder, and continued forward, eyes intent on the forest floor.

Just as she was leaning down to examine a plant, Merrill's ears picked up the faintest noise somewhere to her right and she froze, straining to hear.

A soft, papery noise met her ears, as well as the faintest breathing. She stood cautiously and turned towards the noise, peering around the trees. What she found confused her. There, at the base of a tree about twenty yards in the distance, sat Boromir. In his lap lay the small book Elrond had given him earlier that day, and his thick, calloused fingers hovered over the page like hesitant butterflies, too nervous to land.

Merrill watched, entranced, as he cautiously, reverently, allowed his fingertips to brush against the page, turning it with both reluctance and excitement.

 _And isn't that him all over?_ Merrill thought. _Fascinated, yet repulsed; eventually settling for accepting both, rather than deciding between the two._ Merrill considered Aragorn and his interest in the ring as compared to Boromirs; he had been drawn to it, fascinated by it, even, and had been equally as disgusted by it. _The difference is, he chose a side. I don't think Boromir ever really does._

Suddenly feeling as though she were intruding on something private, Merrill stealthily retreated, returning to camp just as quietly as she had left it and finding everything much the same. The hobbits were still grouped together, munching on the treats they had begged from the kitchens that morning, and Radhrion stood with Gimli guarding the rear.

Just as she set her pack down, Aragorn called, "Come. We must make good use of what daylight remains to us."

The hobbits and Merrill groaned, but it fell on deaf ears.

Aragorn clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Come, Samwise, gather your things. Gimli, if you would, stay with the hobbits. I will take the lead with Radhrion, Legolas will take up the rear, and Gandalf," Aragorn paused and met the wizard's raised brow before continuing, "… will do as he will."

"Just so," Gandalf murmured, getting to his feet and winking at her when she caught his eye.

With gusty sighs, they all got to work gathering their things. The hobbits, though obviously unhappy with the situation, packed with quick and efficient hands, leaving themselves enough time to sit and enjoy another snack.

Merrill slung her pack across her shoulder and adjusted the strap that held her quiver to her back until it settled more comfortably across her chest. The leather armor Legolas had chosen for her still sat uncomfortably against her skin. Though she wore her tunic and breeches beneath it, it rubbed at her neck something fierce, leaving raw, red marks.

She shifted the neckline of her tunic higher and joined the others, standing uncomfortably near the back, uncertain of where Aragorn wished her to be.

As she dithered, Boromir emerged from the woods and took his place behind Gimli as though he'd never left, eyes darting about the assemblage, softening when they landed on the hobbits, hardening with distrust when they landed on Gandalf, and cooling with disdain when they found her.

Radhrion made his way down the line until he stood beside her. "What are you doing? Come join me at the front, little bird."

Merrill noted that Gandalf and Aragorn awaited him, and shook her head; she'd had enough of cold shoulders to last her the rest of the day. "Nah, I'm gonna walk with Prickly. He isn't my biggest fan, but at least he doesn't glare quite as bad as Aragorn does."

Radhrion frowned, glancing back at Legolas. "Are you certain? He is a fine warrior, to be sure, but I would much prefer it if you walked with me, or even with the hobbits, for now."

Merrill shook her head and patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sure. Go on, Ronny. I'll be safe with him."

"Well," Radhrion said reluctantly, "if that is what you wish. But I expect you to move to the center if we come across any danger." Merrill rolled her eyes, but he pressed, "I am quite serious, little bird. Please do as I say."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Merrill snapped him a playful salute and some of the tension in his face eased.

"Insubordinate, cheeky little… go on! Off with you." Radhrion flapped his hands at her and, grinning, returned to the front of the line.

Merrill, feeling lighter, sauntered up to Legolas, who observed her closely. "I guess you're stuck with me for the next few hours, Prickly."

Without looking away, he replied agreeably, "It would appear so, bauglirig."

"Baug… what the hell does that mean?"

Legolas slung his bow over his back and strode forward, the dying sunlight crowning him with amber light, and smiled smugly. "That is for me to know."

Somehow, Legolas seemed more a part of the forest than even the trees did; leaves fell around him as he walked, brushing his shoulders and cheeks almost longingly, and his ridiculously blue eyes reflected the spirit of spring, sparkling and glittering with an exuberance and gladness that made her marginally uncomfortable, though she wasn't quite sure why.

She looked down at her hands, which fiddled with the strap of her healer's kit, and attempted to refocus her thoughts.

"I wish I could say that smug doesn't work for you," she joked, "but it kind of does." Merrill's eyes narrowed, but her lips twitched. "Annoyingly."

He turned to face her, walking backwards and, observing her in that unnervingly attentive way that elves did, asked with genuine curiosity, "What does that mean?"

Merrill tossed her braid back over her shoulder and laughed nervously. "Ahh man. When you ask stuff like that, it sucks all the fun out of it. It means that you are attractive when you behave that way."

Legolas nodded, fighting off a smile, and turned to face the front once again.

After a few moments of silence, wherein Merrill noted that the tips of his ears had taken on the slightest tinge of pink, she elbowed him. "Cat got your tongue, or what?"

He cocked his head to the side, once again giving her his undivided attention. "I am unfamiliar with that phrase, though the imagery _is_ evocative."

"It means that I am wondering why you are quiet; that I want you to respond, to engage me in conversation, etc." Merrill stepped over the bug-eaten remains of a long dead tree, secretly enjoying the freedom of movement her longer legs gave her. "It's not like we've got anything else to do."

"I am more than willing to do as you suggest, but I haven't any idea what subject would most amuse you." Legolas scanned the woods as he spoke, and Merrill wondered if he was diligent even in his sleep.

"Hmm... Would you sing for me?"

He hummed his approbation. "I will do so, but I cannot sing as I would in the forest of my youth, for I do not wish to attract unwanted attention. What would you have me sing?"

Merrill shrugged. "Dealer's choice…" When he merely stared blankly back at her, she amended, "…I mean, you choose."

Legolas stared into the canopy for a moment before saying slowly, "This is from before my time, though you may know it. It is held in the highest regard by our kin, and speaks of the beauty of Luthien's song."

Merrill's brow wrinkled. _What does he mean, 'I may know it'? Does he not…_ She stopped dead in the middle of the path, thinking hard, and Legolas paused, too, watching her with confusion.

"…Merrill?"

 _Does he not know where I'm from?_ She thought, ignoring him. _Who I am? I thought Elrond told the Fellowship…_ Merrill glanced at Aragorn's back. _I thought he told Aragorn, or that Gandalf would have done, at any rate…_ Her eyes found Gimli, chivvying the hobbits like a shepherdess with her sheep. _I don't think Gimli knows. The hobbits don't, either, unless… Would Elrond have told Frodo? Gandalf knows, I'm sure. He has to. Doesn't he kind of know everything?_

Legolas touched her shoulder lightly, his brow furrowed in concern. "Merrill? Is something amiss? Are you unwell?"

She stared back blindly. _Should I tell him if he doesn't know? No._ She shook her head _. No. I can't tell him. He wouldn't believe me, anyway, and it isn't like it's relevant. Plus, I'm leaving._ Merrill frowned at this thought. _I shouldn't drop a bomb like that on them and then just bail._

 _But still…_ His lips moved, but she couldn't hear him at all. All she knew was that his hands were warm on her shoulders, and his breath was sweet as it fanned out against her face. _…It feels wrong for him not to know_. _I'll have to get Radhrion alone when we make camp. He'll know what to do._

His fingertips brushed her cheek and she startled back to reality. "What? What is it?"

Merrill noticed a few things at once. First, they were standing impossibly close, so close, in fact, that she could count his dusky lashes and see the individual flecks of lilac in his eyes. Second, he held her face in his hands, and his palms were soft and warm against her cheeks. Third, her hands gripped loosely at the sides of his green tunic, though she had no conscious recollection of having put them there.

"…What happened?" she asked quietly, keenly aware of how vulnerable, how fragile, the moment was.

She watched as his blue eyes, held wide in wonder, fluttered closed, and a part of her, the part she often overlooked, felt their absence like a blow to the gut.

He took a deep breath and murmured, eyes still closed, "… It is just as he said."

Merrill licked her lips, her heart racing and her cheeks heating beneath his soft hands. "What is just as who said?"

Legolas unclosed his eyes, his jaw tightening, and he replied, "… It is nothing, Merrill. Nothing." His hands dropped to his sides and hung there limply; he did not meet her eyes.

Suddenly recognizing she still held his tunic, she released it as though it burned her and took several steps back, hoping the reclamation of her personal space would also allow her to reclaim something like composure.

It was a doomed hope. Merrill's mind was a veritable waterspout of emotions, the foremost of which was currently confusion, followed closely by stinging rejection, both of which were built on a foundation of something like mutual respect… and attraction, which she now vehemently denied, booting it unceremoniously under her mental rug.

Legolas shifted uncomfortably, his knuckles white on his bow. "…We have fallen somewhat behind the others."

"Seriously?" Merrill asked, propping her fists on her hips. "Is that all you have to say to me?"

He stowed his bow across his back, looking everywhere but at her. "Will you walk before me? It is my duty to guard the rear of the company, but I cannot do so effectively when I am distracted, and you will find that it is much safer to join the others in the middle as Radhrion suggested."

Merrill's head felt like it was on fire, and she opened and closed her mouth three times before she managed to make a sound. "Fine," she snapped, shoving her way past him. "I'll try not to burden you with my company again, seeing as how it's so tedious for you."

"…Very well."

She whirled around, glared at him, tried, and failed, to come up with something clever to say, made a faint snarling noise, and stomped off, muttering, "Stupid, emotionally constipated elf!"

Merrill stomped past Boromir and the chattering hobbits before slowing her stride to walk beside Gimli, who eyed her from beneath his stone helm.

"Who put nettles in yer unmentionables, eh?"

Merrill jerked her head in the direction of Legolas. "Who do you think?"

Gimli's face soured. "Aye. The elvish bratling is good fer that, at least." He rested his hand on the handle of the axe at his hip before asking gruffly, "What happened?"

"He's just—" Merrill yanked on the strap of her bag, resettling it against her chest. "He's impossible, that's what! He's the one who started it, but he treats ME like— He made me think— he made me feel—" She ground her teeth together before throwing her hands up in the air. "It doesn't even matter. I'm not going to talk about him anymore."

"Aye, lassie. Whatever you—" But Gimli didn't get the chance to finish.

"I mean," Merrill continued huffily, "It wasn't like I was going after him or something. It's not like I'm _interested_." She scoffed, blowing the eagle-shortened curl out of her eyes. "I don't find him attractive at all. I mean, he's probably a thousand years older than me, for crying out loud! It'd be like kissing my great, great grandfather. He doesn't need to worry around me."

"… Did Legolas try to kiss you, Merrill?"

Merrill whipped around just in time to catch Merry elbowing a flushed Pippin. "What?! No! Why would you think that?"

Sam glared a warning at Pippin, Merry tried to surreptitiously pinch him, and Frodo smiled faintly at the scene, though his eyes were heavy.

"My apologies for Pippin, Miss," Sam said, running a nervous hand over his dirty blond curls. "He ain't got a lick of sense in that head of his. Don't you worry 'bout what he said."

Merry nodded tersely in agreement, but did not meet her eyes, and Pippin grumbled mutinously beneath his breath.

"Well now," Gimli said, breaking the awkward silence with his usual tact and grace. "We need some jollity to liven us all up a bit." He turned a sharp eye on the hobbits, who met his regard unflinchingly. "Do any of ye wee ones know of any travelin' songs or tales that will help us pass the time?"

Sam perked up immediately. "Will you tell us of Mr. Bilbo's adventures, Mr. Frodo?"

All eyes turned on Frodo, who shook his head a little wearily. "Not today, Sam. The tale requires a light heart and good ale, and I have neither at present."

The other hobbits visibly deflated at this pronouncement, and Sam's brown eyes swept over his master several times, landing, unconsciously, on his chest, where a small bump could be seen beneath his button-up shirt.

Gimli huffed in annoyance, then his eyes widened and he cupped his thick, plate sized hands to his mouth and called, "Radhrion! Will ye tell us of the quest to reclaim Erebor?"

Radhrion who, up until this point, had been deep in conversation with Gandalf at the front of the party, patted the wizard on the back before joining them. He smiled at Merrill, throwing his arm about her shoulders, and clarified, "You wish to hear of Erebor, Gimli? Surely you have heard that tale many times before."

"Aye, but not from ye. Balin told me ye spin a fine yarn."

"Yes," Frodo agreed, his voice gentle, but clear. "Bilbo has said much the same to me, Gimli, and I should like to hear Radhrion's account very much, if only to compare it to the tale I know."

The other hobbits chimed in enthusiastically at this, and Radhrion held up his hands to quiet them down. "I suppose I can tell you some of the tale… but you must choose which part you'd like most to hear, for we haven't enough time, at present, to tell it beginning to end. At least, not to my satisfaction."

At this, the hobbits and Gimli began to confer amongst themselves. Gimli wanted to hear of the spiders, while Sam wanted to hear of Smaug. Merry and Pippin were interested most in the Goblin tunnels, and even Boromir, silent up until this point, professed some little interest in hearing of the final battle, where the great Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, lost his life.

While they argued, Radhrion reached up and pulled a flower from her hair. "I take it you quite forgot that this was in your hair?" Radhrion offered her the flower, and she accepted it, running her fingers over the red petals thoughtfully.

"Yup. Nidhion put it there… Can I ask you something, Ronny?"

"You may."

Merrill lowered her voice, glancing around furtively. "Who knows about me? Where I'm from and all that, I mean. Legolas doesn't, and neither does Gimli… And I'm pretty sure that Sunshine would have had me burnt at the stake if he knew."

Radhrion quirked one, black brow. " _Sunshine_?"

"Yeah, Boromir."

He smiled at that. "Ah, I see. A fitting appellation. As to your question… Gandalf and myself, though I believe Gandalf plans to inform Aragorn at some juncture. At present, Aragorn knows only of your rather unorthodox use of the Fëa Athae; he trusts that Elrond and I have good reason for requesting your presence on this journey, though he is far from pleased."

Merrill shrugged her shoulders. "So what else is new? I don't need anyone to like me, I just need to get to Galadriel and then get out of here…"

Radhrion scanned the trees, his hands fiddling with the sword at his waist. "So you still intend to part with us in Lothlorien?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

Merrill's stomach squirmed. "… Well, yeah. Elrond thinks that… well, the things I know might cause a truck load of problems if I stay, so I figured it was best that I get out as soon as possible."

"Ah, yes, he mentioned something of the sort to me."

They walked in silence, listening to Pippin and Gimli arguing in the background.

Merrill twisted her hands together in front of her, trying to work out the sudden guilt she felt, but to no avail.

 _I hate this_ , she thought vehemently, clenching her teeth. _I hate this place, and I hate my options._ She peered out of the corner of her eye at her friend, who frowned vaguely towards the tree line, his long fingers idly twisting the ends of his brown tunic. _Radhrion was there for me when I had no one else. All he wants is to find his wife. But I can't stay; Elrond basically said that my capture by enemies would mean the end of their world. But…_ Merrill's shoulders slumped forward, and she wrapped her arms around herself. _I don't want to leave him._

Finally, she blurted, "I wanted to stay to help you find your wife, Radhrion, but I don't think it's safe. The longer I stay here, the more likely it is that I accidentally say something, or interfere, or get captured, and if any of those things happen… well, I could be responsible for the end of this world."

Radhrion tugged gently on her braid until she looked at him, then brushed her eagle-shorn curl from her face, smiling kindly. "I thank you for your concern, little bird, and for your wish to aid me, but I would not begrudge you your home. In fact, I would rejoice in the knowledge that you were safe and worlds away from this foul predicament in which we find ourselves." He sighed and turned his gaze back to the front. "This is not your fight, my dear."

"Oh…" Merrill's heart plunged into her boots at the constancy of his kindness and concern for her well-being; she felt like an absolute heel. "…Thanks."

"Radhrion! We cannot decide between us! We leave it to you to choose what you wish to tell us."

Radhrion and Merrill both smiled at Frodo, who had been responsible for this un-Frodo-like outburst, relieved for the distraction his words provided; both were a little raw from their conversation and the realization of their imminent separation. After all, Merrill wasn't just moving a few states or counties over-she was returning to another world altogether. The likelihood that either would ever see the other again was nonexistent, and this was a thought that didn't bear scrutiny or encourage contemplation.

The young hobbit's cheeks were flushed with life, and his blue eyes crackled with excitement as he awaited their reply, looking from Merrill to Radhrion and back expectantly.

Radhrion pulled his storyteller's persona about himself, the gray tinge of anticipatory grief submerging into the depths of his stormy eyes as a coin falls into the sea, leaving no evidence of its passage. He grinned his usual grin, eyes sparking with mischief, and pulled theatrically at his cuffs. "As you wish, Frodo. Then I will tell you of the creature Gollum, and the riddles in the dark…"

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **And they're off! I posted early because avoidance is a thing, lol. That, plus I managed to get 15,000 words written in the past week! (Say what?!) :)**

 **Any-hoo, thanks for the follows, faves, and reviews, all! I hope you enjoy the chapter, because there's A LOT of information coming up... and lots of progress in certain relationships, too. I'm so freaking hyped about what I have written, and so excited to share with you all! I should probably have held onto this chapter and actually gone over it, but I'm impatient.**

 **Best wishes ~**


	31. Chapter 31

**"** **And I feel I should know this place**

 **As a road winds on in a wide open space**

 **The wind plays a haunting tune**

 **As I make my way through the night all alone."**

 **\- Lord Huron, 'Lonesome Dreams'.**

* * *

ooOoo

The sun had fallen well beyond the horizon when Aragorn called a halt for the night.

Merrill set her healer's bag on the ground a ways away from where the others were busy setting up a fire, and unclipped her bow and quiver from her back, setting both beside her bag before sinking to the ground with a groan of relief. Never in her life had she walked as much as she had that day. The muscles in her legs throbbed in the dull way that told her she would be feeling this later, and her neck was raw from where her armor chafed.

Also, she really had to pee.

Luckily, Nestadis had explained how such things were handled in the wilderness, so Merrill was, at least, mentally fortified against the many indignities involved. But having to wait for someone to dig the latrine was proving something of a challenge.

She crossed her legs and clenched everything she could clench, her eyes jumping from one person to another, looking specifically for the small shovel that would mean her salvation. But no one stirred from where Sam and Pippin were building the fire.

Finally, Merrill struggled to her feet and waddled away into the tree line, determined to find relief.

When she judged herself to be far enough away, Merrill peeled at the leather encasing her thighs and did her business quickly, terrified of being caught by one of the others in the middle of things.

But now came another problem: she had nothing with which to wash her hands. Merrill took in what she could of the dark forest, but did not see, or hear, any running water.

 _I would kill for some toilet paper and hand sanitizer right about now. How did anyone in medieval times survive this nonsense? It's a nightmare, and this is just the beginning._

"Merrill?"

She almost jumped out of her skin, but managed to contain herself long enough to squeak, "I'm coming!"

With more speed than she thought she possessed, she was up the slope and back in camp in seconds, coming to a stop in front of an amused Radhrion, who held a small shovel in one hand.

"This is for you. We've dug our latrine over there." He pointed to the opposite side of camp. "So I suggest you dig yours somewhere within this area here. But do not go too far; we must be able to come to your aid should we be attacked. Make sure to cover it over before we depart in the morning." He handed her the shovel and continued, "Once you have finished, return to camp. Supper should be ready by the time you're done."

Merrill grumbled something like an agreement under her breath and trudged back the way she'd come, silently cursing the lack of plumbing and handy convenience stores in Middle Earth. She found herself longing even for the miniscule level of comfort gas station bathrooms provided as she set the tip of her shovel into the dirt at the base of a bush and began to dig.

oOoOo

* * *

Tired, dirty, and thoroughly unamused, Merrill returned to camp and flopped down beside her pack, staring up through the forest canopy at what stars were visible. She knew she should offer to help the others, make herself useful, but she just couldn't muster up enough energy to care about what they thought of her at the moment. All she could do was stare blankly into the dome of the sky and wonder, for the millionth time, why any of this was happening to her.

Merrill tried counting the days since she'd arrived, but found that she didn't quite recall. Had it been three months? Four? The days had all begun to blur together at some point, and she'd forgotten to keep track.

A wave of guilt crashed over her at this thought; she'd lost track somehow, in the midst of all the training and work, of her old life—of her mother, of her friends, of the life she had been trying to build for herself—all of it had fallen by the wayside in favor of focusing on finding her place in this world, in these new relationships.

Merrill rubbed at her forehead tiredly. Had her mother forgotten her? Did time pass the same on Earth? Had she lost her spot at her university? Had her car been impounded?

She flipped onto her side and glared, moodily, into the forest, her back to the fire. If she managed to return, would her old life be waiting for her? Would she return to a world in which those who loved her had had to suffer through her absence? Or would it be reset?

Gimli plopped down beside her and offered her a bowl. "Eat, lass. That Sam makes a fine meal with sausages and tomatoes, though he is yet a young 'un."

Merrill sat up and accepted her bowl with a quiet 'thank you', poking at the contents half-heartedly.

"Aw, lassie, donnae treat a fine meal so. This is the best we'll get fer a while. Best to enjoy it." Gimli speared a hunk of still steaming sausage with his belt knife and popped it into his mouth, chewing appreciatively.

Merrill did the same, using the wooden spoon to scoop up pieces of the makeshift stew. It tasted of rosemary, onions, and garlic. The acidic tang of the tomatoes had melded into something sweet, and the pieces of sausage had leant their spices to the rest of the dish. All in all, it wasn't half bad for a meal on the road, and Merrill found herself scraping the bowl with her spoon, surprisingly hungry after their twelve-hour hike.

Gimli handed her a piece of still warm flat bread, and she accepted it happily, wiping the leftover bits of tomato and sauce clean from the bowl and popping the whole mess into her mouth.

When she'd finally finished, she set her bowl and spoon down beside her and leaned back against her pack with a satisfied sigh. Gimli set his back to a rock and pulled out his pipe.

Merrill closed her eyes; the smoke that drifted across to her sensitive nose wasn't tobacco. It was something muskier and less invasive.

"Ahhhh," Gimli exhaled in contentment, "nothing like a pipe after a good meal ter relax a Dwarrow." He offered it to her, but she politely declined, shaking her head. "Ach, suit yerself."

He blew several, wobbly rings of smoke, cursing quietly when he failed, and before long, Pippin sidled up to him, his own pipe held between his hands.

"That's some fine weed, Gimli. Mind if I join you?"

Though Merrill had noted that Gimli was a suspicious being, his suspicions did not seem to carry over to the hobbits, though they did carry over to all elves but herself and Radhrion, and all humans, though he seemed less watchful of Boromir and Aragorn than he was of Legolas.

Gimli indicated the ground beside him with his chin. "Go on, then. Have a seat."

Pippin sat down, an expression of purest relief overtaking his features, and busied himself with his pipe, stuffing it full of dried leaves from a leather satchel in his waistcoat.

When he'd had a few puffs, Merrill asked, "Do you mind if I ask you about Hobbits? I don't know much about you all, and I'm curious."

Pippin blinked once, twice, three times before he coughed and exhaled, eyes watering.

Gimli offered him his flask with a gruff, "Easy now, laddie. She's a good 'un."

After he'd gulped some of the Dwarvish spirit down, Pippin nodded jerkily, and Merrill, pleased, asked, "Well, I've always wondered: how old are you all? You all seem remarkably young to be taking part in such a journey."

Pippin fiddled with the stem of his pipe, twisting it between his agile fingers. "I'm 26, Miss, Merry is 36, Sam's 38, and Frodo's 50."

Merrill scrambled to scrape her jaw off the floor. "You're all so much older than I thought! You're even older than m—" She stopped herself, realizing that she was, in fact, a centuries old elf to them, and coughed. "I mean, you're probably older than Boromir or even Aragorn, then."

"I'm not sure… but it is likely, I suppose."

"So Frodo is kind of like your uncle, in a way. I had no idea he was so much older than you all."

Pippin shook his head. "Frodo is not that old, at all. He's in his prime. The age of maturity for a Hobbit is 33."

Merrill thought about this; if 33 was the Hobbit equivalent to 18… "Then you're still considered a teen? I mean, an adolescent?"

Pippin scuffed the dirt with his large, hairy feet, his chin set mulishly. "Yes. I am considered full young, yet. But I'll be an adult in seven years! Hardly any time, at all, and we Tooks have always seen and known much more of the world than other Hobbits."

Merrill did the mental calculations in her head. S _even years… did that make him eleven in human years? Are Hobbit years like dog years, but reversed? He's just a child!_ She looked at him with dismay, worried for him though he was technically four years her senior.

Gimli patted him on the back, nearly knocking him into the dirt. "By Dwarvish custom, ye'd be naught more than a babe, barely allowed ter fight. At fifty, me Da wouldna let me join him on the quest to retake Erebor."

"Oh, man," Merrill groaned, looking her friend up and down, "don't tell me—you are actually, what, 372?"

Gimli threw out his chest, thumbs hooking into the front of his armor, and crowed, "I am 139 years of age, lassie. A full adult by the customs of my kin, old enough to own me own hall, take a wife, and what have ye."

Merrill rested her head against her pack and closed her eyes, shaking her head in disbelief. "Are there preservatives in the water here, or what? I would have guessed you were in your fifties, Gimli. And I'd have guessed Frodo was twenty. None of you make any sense, I just want you to know that."

Gimli snorted good-naturedly, but Pippin said with some confusion, "Well then, how old are you? You are certainly centuries older than either of us, though you wouldn't know it to look at you, my lady." His cheeks flushed a little at his boldness and Merrill reached over and ruffled his hair.

"You're adorable. But I take your point; age is relative, I suppose."

Pippin's cheeks glowed at this, but she saw a glimmer of delight in his brown eyes and relaxed, happy to have made a new friend.

"Come, you three, and join us by the fire. We should like to have some part in your merry conversation very much." Gandalf waved them over and, reluctantly, Merrill got to her feet, helping Gimli to his, before skulking behind Pippin which, for obvious reasons, was not overly effective. She made a beeline for Radhrion, but noticed that sitting beside him would mean sitting beside Sunshine and so quickly changed direction to sit beside Gimli, but saw that Legolas sat to his right.

Merrill briefly met his eyes, her anger flaring up all over again, but something like pride overcame her, and she sat between them anyway, determined to behave naturally.

Legolas shifted ever so slightly to accommodate her, and she nodded as she imagined a displeased queen would do; nose firmly in the air, eyes cool with judgment, but, somehow, still regal in her disdain.

"Now then, isn't this pleasant?" Gandalf smiled at each of them, his eyes lingering on Merrill for a moment longer than was strictly comfortable. "I have asked you all to join us so that we might discuss a few odds and ends. Aragorn?"

Aragorn picked up a stick and began to draw lines in the dirt before his feet. "We shall continue South for about a fortnight until we reach Hollin. From there, we will determine which path it would be wisest to take. Should we continue Southeast to Rohan, or Southwest to Gondor? Or do as Gandalf believes to be wisest and cross the mountains to Lothlorien, and turn south from there?"

"Why not take the Gap of Rohan to my city and travel East from Minas Tirith? My people would gladly give us aid and rest," Boromir said reasonably. "And the Black Gate is not much farther. The men under my command have long held back the evils of Mordor and would be our best hope of gaining entrance to that dark place."

Aragorn shook his shaggy head. "That path takes us too near to Isengard, Boromir; we cannot go to Gondor."

"Then what do you suggest, _Ranger_?" He spat, light gray eyes flashing in his tan face. "That we seek the aid of the horse lords? They have no honor. They care for nothing but their horses and their lands; they care not for the plight of their brethren, of the men who give their lives every day so that their lands might be kept safe." Boromir flung a branch into the fire and sparks erupted into the night sky. "Or will you stoop to further folly and seek the aid of the Elvish witch?"

The shadows around the campfire lengthened and the air grew chill and static, as though it were charged. Merrill unconsciously leaned into Legolas, her shoulder brushing against his, and his hand found hers and squeezed.

The shadows grew and clung to Gandalf as he stood, his voice deeper and more resonant. "You will not disparage the Lady of the Wood in my presence, Boromir, son of Denethor, nor speak with arrogant certainty of that with which you have neither knowledge, nor experience."

Everyone shrunk back from Gandalf, from whom the ominous sense of foreboding came, even Boromir, though he sneered as he did so, his face several shades paler.

Gandalf's display lasted only moments more before he sighed and blinked, and he was once again a bent, gnarled, elderly man perched precariously atop a low rock, drowning in the folds of his gray cloak and shivering slightly in the night breeze.

The warmth and light gradually returned to the clearing, the tension dissipating, and Merrill breathed in relief; she'd never seen Gandalf use his power before, and she wasn't interested in being on the wrong side of it ever again, thank you very much.

Despite Gandalf's show of power, though, she felt peaceful, warm, and content. Her worries melted away, and she felt somehow more attached to her body, more alive, than she'd felt since coming to Middle Earth.

Legolas pulled his hand from hers and focused his attention on Aragorn, who had resumed sketching in the dirt, and Merrill tried to slam the metaphorical door on the hurt that sprung from this simple action, taking refuge in righteous indignation.

"As I was saying, we have about 15 to 16 days more of travel if we keep to the pace we set today. We will have ample opportunity to decide on which path we will take. For now, we will draw lots for watches and get some rest. We leave at dawn."

Pippin stomped his foot a little at Aragorn's words and frowned; Merrill reached across Gimli and patted him on the knee. "I'm more of an afternoon person, too. But you can eat breakfast with me and Gimli tomorrow, if you want. And you might be able to convince me to tell you a story or two while we walk."

Pippin smiled at this, and opened his mouth to reply when Merry called sharply, "Pippin! Come here and help me with this, won't you?"

Merrill shrugged and waved him off with an understanding smile; she may have won some form of friendship with Pippin, but Merry was another matter altogether. He would not bestow his trust easily, from what she could tell, but if she won it, she would have gained the regard of the other Hobbits, too. For all Merry's jokes, he was respected by the others, and so, too, would his opinion of Merrill be, if she could ever get him to change his mind, that is.

Merrill moved across to Radhrion and bumped him with her shoulder to get his attention. "When's my watch, Ronny?"

Rather than reply, Radhrion took her elbow and steered her towards the opposite side of the fire, where two bedrolls had already been laid out. "It is not necessary for you to take a watch, little bird. There are more than enough of us to do so, and I need very little rest. So take yours while you can, and I'll wake you for breakfast."

"Nope," Merrill said stubbornly, shaking her head. "I'll watch with you tonight. It's only a few hours, right? Besides, two watchers are better than one."

Radhrion heaved a great sigh and pushed her, gently, onto the nearest bedroll. "Fine, but my turn is not for a few hours, yet, so get some rest." He settled atop the bedroll beside hers and tucked one of his hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the stars above, his breathing even.

Merrill pulled her boots off, loosened her leather armor, and crawled into her bedroll, turning on her side to face Radhrion.

Around her, the others whispered and settled, too. Legolas passed her silently and stood guard some distance away, facing the dark forest, his fingers fiddling with something small.

Boromir dragged his bedroll further from the fire and arranged his sword and daggers around him strategically before laying his head down and closing his eyes.

And Gandalf remained on his rock, his pipe out, blue smoke curling around his face. His gray eyes were a thousand miles away, and the firelight flickered ominously across the weathered landscape of his face, making every wrinkle a chasm, and transforming his eyes into dark pits.

A low voice drew her attention, and she rolled over to find Aragorn sitting on the earth near Legolas, his travel-stained gray cloak pulled tight around him, and the hood drawn up to conceal his face. If he hadn't been singing, Merrill would not have noticed he was there.

 ** _"A Elbereth Gilthoniel_**

 ** _silivren penna míriel_**

 ** _o menel aglar elenath!"_**

A voice like starlight joined his, and Merrill watched as Legolas and Aragorn continued the song, singing softly, but clearly, and harmonizing in a way that made her think they'd done so before.

 ** _"Na-chaered palan-díriel_**

 ** _o galadhremmin ennorath,_**

 ** _Fanuilos, le linnathon to thee,_**

 ** _nef aear, sí nef aearon!_**

 ** _A Elbereth Gilthoniel_**

 ** _o menel palan-diriel,_**

 ** _le nallon sí di'nguruthos!_**

 ** _A tiro nîn, Fanuilos!"_ (1)**

Something within her recognized the song, though she hadn't any idea what it was. The way they'd sung, though, she knew that it was about someone they loved and respected-someone above reproach. Merrill snuggled down a little further into her blankets until just her hazel eyes were visible, and listened as they began another song, hardly noticing the rocks or the unyielding earth beneath her. Tension faded, consciousness dimmed, and Merrill slept.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 ** **(1) A Elbereth Gilthoniel by J.R.R. Tolkien****

 **Thanks so much for your reviews, faves, and follows! I have some stuff to get done this weekend (heading into the last few weeks of the term and am, subsequently, slammed with projects and papers), but, once I'm done, I plan on trying to post another chapter maybe... this Sunday? No promises, though. :)**

 **Aobh - Your review inspired me to post earlier than I'd previously intended. Your compliments as concern Merrill and Radhrion made me especially happy. Thanks so much for your thoughtful critique and insights; I appreciate them enormously, and hope that you continue to enjoy.**

 **D'elfe - Thanks so much for your comment! And you will be learning more about both Merrill and Radhrion soon; drips and drops, yes, but it is necessary for the shape of the story. I personally can't WAIT for you to find out about him! It's been incredibly difficult not to just spill it all in the Author's Note. I hope you continue to read and enjoy!**

 **WickedGreene13 - Lolol I was wondering if anyone would pick up on that. That word is a base word and, according to the Elvish dictionaries I consult, it means, "Tyrant"; a fitting name, I think, for Merrill on certain occasions. :)**

 **LeePaceFan - Thanks so much!  
**

 **Guest - Thank you!  
**

 **Deathherselfie - Hope I got your username right! Thanks so much for your review. I am trying to work with canon wherever I possibly can, rather than against it, so I appreciate your comment. I will, in all likelihood, make a few mistakes here and there, for which I apologize in advance.**

 **See you all, hopefully, soon!**

 **Best wishes ~**


	32. Chapter 32

**"All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream."**

 **\- E.A. Poe, "A Dream within a Dream."**

* * *

ooOoo

 _She was dreaming._

 _Merrill could tell because her dream self's curls were sleek and glossy; there wasn't a bit of frizz to be seen, anywhere, and that just wasn't natural._

 _Beside her, one of the largest waterfalls she'd ever seen roared down into the crystal lake she stood beside. The moonlight reflected off the cascade, and it appeared as though silvery stars were plummeting over the edge and falling, falling, falling into the lake below._

 _To her immediate left there was a large tree with white bark, similar to Beech trees, with dark green leaves and, in its crown, a house, of some sort. Or perhaps cottage would be a better term. Merrill craned her neck and noticed the faintest glimmer of light appearing from what could only be windows._

Well, I'm stuck here, anyway, might as well climb up and see what there is to see _. Merrill got to her feet, brushing her rear free of bits of broken blades of emerald green grass, and approached cautiously. Some part of her realized this was a dream, but the part of her intent on survival squealed that this might not be the best idea she'd ever had. After all, people who built their houses in the tops of trees beside lonely waterfalls with no other buildings or towns in sight probably weren't too keen on company. Even so, a compulsion arose within her; she had to see what lay within. She had to know._

 _Just as she reached the base of the tree, a groaning and creaking sound not unlike an earthquake mixed with a squeaky door emanated from above. She glanced up and her jaw hit the floor. Making its way towards her, with an ease and dignity she did not expect, were white, wooden stairs growing directly out of the side of the tree. They twisted and twined down the trunk, looping precisely until rolling out onto the grass to bump gently against her feet._

Magic stairs. Hogwarts tree. I don't know why I'm surprised by anything, anymore, honestly.

 _Disregarding her common sense, which shrilled that this was not normal, Merrill wrapped her fingers against the grown bannister and began her ascent. The wood beneath her fingers was still warm and pulsed with life; it hadn't sacrificed itself to assist her, merely grown in a new way. This relieved her._

 _Merrill paused and fell into the darkness of her mind, where an odd, golden light had taken up residence. She nudged at it with her mind, trying to move it to her fingers. It wouldn't budge._

Now, now, Elf-light. I'm the boss, here. You're renting space in my head, so when I say jump, you jump!

 _Merrill gritted her teeth and tried once more. The light alternated between dimming and flashing brighter than ever before, almost as if it were thrashing against her restraints, before bursting and coating her body. She unclosed her eyes, and, with more gentleness than she had ever known she possessed, trailed her fingers against the tree and thought:_ Thank you for helping me. I hope the sun shines on you for many ages, and that bugs give up munching on your tender leaves.

 _Something molasses-slow, plodding, but affectionate, brushed against her mind like a warm, spring breeze._ May your roots sink deep and spread far, Quendi tithen. You are expected. The Lady searches for you.

 _Her brow screwed up and Merrill thought hesitantly:_ What do you mean?

 _Her voice, for she it seemed, was soothing, deep, and mellow, and Merrill sensed that the words she spoke were true_. Be at peace, Nightingale. There is no one here who would do you harm.

That's something, I guess.

 _If a tree could be said to laugh, Merrill would've sworn on any stack of religious texts that she had done so. Her leaves rustled in an imitation of a soft chuckle._ Go. Do not tarry.

 _Recognizing her dismissal, Merrill bowed low, hand twisting over her heart, and continued up the stairs. Speaking with trees would never be normal, but she could admit that the experience left her feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and energized. She imagined she could easily run enough laps in this state to please even Nordir._

 _The cool night air rocked the branches around her, but Merrill was unafraid; the tree had promised her safe passage, and she believed her._

 _As she rounded the last corner, a shimmering door appeared at the top of the stairs. When Merrill had gotten closer, she leaned in, her long nose almost touching the…_ water droplets? How in the hell had they done that? _The door was comprised entirely of water droplets strung together, somehow, into shape. The drops vibrated ever so slightly._

 _Though the water was clear, Merrill could not see through it. The room beyond was a pale blue blur._

 _With some trepidation, she screwed up her courage and closed her fingers around the handle. It was real! The handle was cool to the touch and as smooth as wet glass. When she tried to push her other hand through the 'door', itself, she met resistance._

 _"_ _Do come in."_

 _A voice issued from the other side of the door, and Merrill pulled her hand off the knob as though burned; she hadn't expected there to actually be anyone within. The whole tree seemed purposefully isolated, as for scholarly pursuits, perhaps. She'd expected an empty wizard's tower, or something, filled with pickled odds and ends, shiny brass doodads and contraptions whose purpose she could not fathom, and shelves upon shelves of musty scrolls and hide-bound tomes. Maybe there would be a section dedicated entirely to the growth of herbs used in alchemy. In her mind, this garden sat under a skylight cut into the ceiling. The tree's branches would flow out of the way to allow in sunlight. But when she entered, the garden would be aglow with starlight and fireflies would dance in concert; small flecks of living glitter._

 _The door opened and Merrill lost all ability for coherence. Before her, in a long, silvery robe bedecked in embroidered stars, was the most beautiful elf she'd ever seen. Her skin was pale and smooth, her hair a thick mane of jet tumbling down to her hips, and her lips were thin, but wide; her mouth was rosy and made for smiling. She was slender but muscular, and very tall. Merrill guessed she was somewhere around Legolas' height, or a little taller. This Elf's build, in fact, put Merrill in mind of Greek statues to Athena; even now, she could picture her in a kyten and feathered war helm, heavy shield on one arm, and in her hand, a bronze short sword. Two curved, ebony brows flared out dramatically above her heavy lidded, velvety blue eyes, and her nose was small, but upturned at the end. Her face, which was round and plump with youth, was given some distinction by her cat-like cheekbones, which leant her impossible beauty a somewhat cheeky air, and Merrill couldn't help but sigh at the excess of thick, black lashes that lay demurely against her cheek._

 _"_ _Are you real?" Was Merrill's first question once her voice had returned. She blinked dazedly and looked away._

 _The lovely elf's face flared and glowed like starlight with her excitement, and her eyes lit with relief. "Merrill! At last—"_

Merrill startled awake and glared groggily across the fire to Gimli, whose snores had awoken her.

She flipped onto her side to notice that Radhrion had taken up his post at the edge of the forest, having replaced Aragorn and Legolas. Grumbling, she wrapped her bedroll around her and shuffled awkwardly over to him, plopping onto the ground by his side.

"What happened to: _Don't worry, Merrill, I'll wake you up_?"

He heaved a sigh and patted his shoulder. "If you will not sleep like the rest of the civilized world, then you may rest your head on my shoulder, at least."

Merrill snuggled up to him without another word, smiling through a yawn. "How long have you been awake?"

Merrill felt his shoulders lift in a shrug. "An hour, maybe more. As I have said before, I require less sleep than many of our party. There have been times in my long and storied life where I forewent rest altogether, for some weeks, in fact, though I paid dearly for my vigilance later, if memory serves."

"I just don't get the whole not sleeping thing. If I could, I'd sleep twelve hours every day. Elves are weird."

"Hmmm…" Radhrion hummed thoughtfully. "It might shock you to learn that you now take your rest with your eyes open, as do all Elves."

Merrill knocked her head into his shoulder in retaliation. "Do not, either."

She felt his grin against the top of her head. "Indeed, you do. And though it might earn me another act of violence, I must say, you have appeared quite Elven this past day. There were several instances in which your appearance took me quite off guard; I wondered who had invited an elleth along."

Merrill sat up and punched him lightly.

Radhrion rubbed his arm. "And one so ill-tempered, at that."

"Come on, Ronny," Merrill chided, wrapping her bedroll more tightly about her arms. "Be serious. I know that I've changed a bit, but not all in the past day. Are you telling me I still looked like my old self up until yesterday? Even with the growth spurt and everything?"

He nodded seriously, his dark hair sliding against his back.

"Ha!" she scoffed, resettling herself. "You're telling me that I looked hu—"

Radhrion clapped his hand over her mouth and held a finger to his own lips, eyes wide, and jerked his head to the side, where Aragorn and Legolas slept. Merrill nodded once and he removed his hand slowly.

Radhrion glared up and down in disbelief, his eyebrows in his hairline: _What were you thinking, little bird?_

Merrill spread her hands, her lips parting, and her eyes wide: _I didn't do it on purpose!_

He shook his head, indicating the others with a pointed glance of his cloud-gray eyes: _You must be more cautious; they distrust you enough as is._

Merrill flapped her hand at him: _Yeah, yeah._

Their silent conversation over, Radhrion returned his attention to the forest around them and Merrill peered repeatedly at the spot where Legolas and Aragorn were, hopefully, still sleeping, more nervous than she'd let on. She knew as well as Radhrion that they'd close ranks against her in a heartbeat if they discovered she'd lied to them. The Fellowship was a group held together by promises alone at this point. If it were revealed that one of their number, a not so popular one, at that, had lied to them about something that was, to the uninitiated, super suspicious, they would toss that person out. The only person who could smooth Aragorn's ruffled feathers would be Gandalf, but he'd only be able to do that if he was the one who told Aragorn in the first place.

 _I can't tell any of them_ , she thought glumly, purposefully excluding one person from the 'them' in her mind.

Merrill set her suddenly heavy head on Radhrion's shoulder and passed the rest of the watch with him in silence.

oOoOo

They set off after a quick breakfast of the previous night's meal. Merrill, never having been picky, ate what she was given and settled her bow and quiver over her back, slinging her small healer's kit over her shoulder. She splashed some water from her canteen over her face, but was too nervous to do much else with it; she hadn't seen any rivers, and the thought of running out scared her.

She passed the morning trudging in mutual, grumpy silence with Gimli, listening to the Hobbit's chipper, morning chatter for several hours until her brain clocked in, at which point she began to take some interest in her changing surroundings.

The sun had been growing brighter and brighter for the past few hours, and the trees were thinning, too; those nearby were slim and short, clearly younger than those found deeper in.

Merrill's heart leapt when she broke the tree line.

"Mountains! Ronny, look!" She raced to the head of their line and grabbed his arm, ignoring Gandalf's doting smile. "Do you know what they're called?"

"Those are the three mountains above Khaza-Dum, a hall of my kin." Gimli gestured to the mountains. "Barazinbar, Zirakzigil, and Bundushathûr, as my kin named them. Balin is there, Radhrion, along with Ori, Oin, and a few others. Been there for around thirty years, now, I'd say?"

"Yes, Gloin mentioned something about that. He also told me that no one has heard from them in many years…"

Gimli grunted. "Aye, that is so, but I donnae worry about them. You know how my kin are, Radhrion; they get a whiff of Mithril, and naught else matters, and Moria brims with the stuff."

Gandalf and Radhrion exchanged a loaded look, and Radhrion replied carefully, "Yes, I suppose that might be so… however, the Balin I knew was quite an exacting, methodical, responsible sort of fellow; most definitely not the sort to ignore the post for the better part of two decades." Radhrion paused at Gimli's expression, and added, "… But perhaps I am wrong. Moria is the sort of endeavor of which Balin would be quite fond; abandoned, Dwarven city, brimming with history and rare artifacts, with the potential for hundreds of thousands of untapped Mithril veins, home to the Mirrormere of legend… And there is also the axe of Durin the Deathless to consider. Was it not written that it rested there?"

Gimli perked up at this. "Aye. Ori was chewin' at the bit to go fer just that purpose. One of the first letters we received claimed they'd found two of the lost Dwarven treasures. King Dain mentioned to me Da that one might be Durin's helm…"

Radhrion glanced over his shoulder. "I haven't any recollection of such an artifact…"

Gimli huffed, eyeing the others suspiciously. "Aye. Mayhap I'll tell ye about it another time."

Boromir rolled his eyes, Aragorn smiled knowingly, and Gandalf ignored them all, eyes sharp on the horizon.

The conversation dwindled after that, and Merrill, looking for distraction, sped up to walk beside Gandalf, who spared her the smallest of smiles. "Ah, I know that expression. I saw it many times upon the face of another reluctant adventurer with whom I once traveled." Gandalf peered at her from under his bushy, gray eyebrows, blue eyes sparkling. "You have questions."

Merrill nodded. "Only about a thousand."

This encouraged a small chuckle. "Yes, I imagine so. Please." He gestured that she should speak. "The road is long and made for conversation."

Merrill chewed her lip as she thought; she couldn't ask him anything about her strange appearance in Middle Earth, as the others were too close for comfort and would likely overhear. But she could feel out what he knew about what happened next... "What do you know about this Moria place Gimli was talking about?"

He considered her. "Hmmm. Not as much as I would wish. The Dwarves are a…" His eyes darted to Gimli, and he evidently thought better of his reply. "… _private_ race. Durin the Deathless founded it sometime near the ending of the Years of the Trees. After stumbling upon the Mirrormere, a great lake at the eastern edge of the mountains, he could not help but gaze into its depths. His reflection stood out starkly against the clear, blue of the water, and behind his head, though it was full day out, there sprung a crown of stars. He took this as a sign that his rule was divine, and went on to establish Khazad-Dum, or Moria, as the Elves named it."

Before Merrill could ask anything further, a deep voice, thick with emotion and a heavy brogue, sang out:

"A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone forever fair and bright." (1)

The company all turned their attention upon the suddenly bashful Dwarf, who rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, his face flush under the copper of his beard.

"Would you sing us the rest, Gimli?" Frodo entreated politely, smiling his usual gentle smile, but Gimli shook his head and stomped ahead, a storm brewing on his wrinkled brow.

Gandalf sighed. "Gimli worries for his kin. Though Dain has done well by his people in Erebor, it was the rule of Thorin Oakenshield which many believed would return them to the days of their glory. His death is still felt, even after all these years."

Merrill barely concealed a growl of annoyance. "There is no returning to glory, though. To try only brings misery. You cannot become your past. All anyone can do is look to the future, embrace change, and work towards improvement." Gandalf smiled thoughtfully at her, and Merrill looked away, muttering, "At least, that's what history has taught me."

"The past contains wisdom, too, for those who would seek it, and how else would you begin your improvements if you did not first study what came before? Would you discount it in your frenzied efforts towards change?"

Merrill's eyes flew to Legolas, who had, somehow, come much closer while she was distracted.

She gritted her teeth. "That isn't what I said, your highness." She smirked at his scowl, but continued, "I only meant that many choose to bury themselves there, rather than learn from it and move on. Or they cherry pick what they want from it, while ignoring the greater context to make themselves seem more important, or more…" she fumbled for the right word, "… right. The past is… well, to quote a poem, '… it was goodly once, and yet, when all is said, the best of it we know is that it's done and dead.' Learn from it, and move on. Don't hold onto it. Don't idealize it." (2)

This got more than a few raised brows, and even Gimli, the card-carrying leader of the Anti-Legolas fan club, asked somewhat skeptically, "But the past holds our history, lassie. It holds our stories, and the stories of our kin. Without knowledge of our past, how would we live in the present?"

Merrill shrugged, knowing her position wasn't winning her any friends. "I think the present might be a damn sight more pleasant if y'all didn't hold on to all of this. Think about it: if the stories of your past did not exist, would you hate Elves? Would Elves hate Dwarves? Would you all be so divided?"

Legolas and Gimli replied in unison: "Yes."

Merrill rolled her eyes. "I'm just saying that the past has its' place, and that is behind us. No one can, or should, spend their whole lives looking backward while walking forward; that's how accidents happen. And that's what it seems like most of the people of Middle Earth do; they're all preoccupied with reclaiming some lost glory, some lost golden age, but they don't stop once to consider that those times were lost for a reason."

Amidst the outcry of the rest of the party, Aragorn's gray eyes met, and held, her own; they were cautious, as always, but curious, too. He nodded somewhat stiffly in acknowledgment, and Merrill grinned; the ice, it seemed, was beginning to thaw. And it made sense; Aragorn, out of the entire company, would understand her position. The past was pushing him forward, now, into the chill hands of death and away from the warm embrace of love and life. He journeyed to reclaim a glory thousands of years behind him, a glory which relegated him to an existence which, if he survived its' pursuit, would leave him with the weight of an entire kingdom – an entire world – upon his shoulders, and would forever separate him from that which he longed for most. It was a past which proved how unworthy he and his blood were of such an honor; he had to believe that the past was simply a place to start, not a final destination, or he would have to admit that this quest, and his part on it, were ultimately doomed to failure. _And to admit that_ … Merrill watched him thoughtfully; his footsteps were near as quiet as those of Radhrion and Legolas, and there was something of the Elven in his features. Or perhaps it was the expression in his eyes. They weren't as intimidating as those of the Elves, but there was something of starlight to be seen in their dark depths, something that hinted at past glory. It was like looking at the remnants of a once great city on the travel channel; the shape of it could still be imagined – the magnificence of the public baths, the shining, white marble villas, the gilt in the stonework – but the reality was nothing more than crumbled bits of rock and indentations in the earth which denoted where great structures once stood. His shoulders were tense, his long, scarred hands vigilant, and a semi-permanent frown seemed carved on his lips. _Well, if he admitted that, it'd be as good as accepting his death, and the death of the rest of us, too. He'd never be able to endure all of this if he accepted that._

Feeling unimaginably sad for him, Merrill broke the surface of her thoughts and fell to the back, trudging behind Boromir, who eyed her suspiciously.

She smiled at him, just to be contrary. "What are your thoughts on the past?"

Boromir grimaced. "I haven't any thoughts upon the subject, my lady."

Her shoulders slumped forward, and she clapped a hand to her face. "I'm Merrill. _Just_ Merrill. And I'm sure you do. You're from Gondor, right?"

The tall, dark-haired man nodded curtly, his lips thinning against the tan of his face.

"So, Gondor _doesn't_ have a past to be proud of?"

Boromir rounded on her, fists clenched by his sides. "Gondor has a proud and noble past, my lady. Its' people are descended from the blood of Numenor, and we share a deep reverence for our history. The city is a beacon of shining, white light on the edge of darkness; it is hope. It is strength. It is fortitude. Its' men have long defended Middle Earth from Sauron's shadow with no expectation of gratitude or aid, though you will find none more deserving of both, and have gladly given their life's blood to keep you all safe." He huffed a little at his small speech. "You will never find a more generous people, nor more passionate. We love our kin. We love our lands. And we hate any who would do harm to either; whether knowingly or through willful negligence makes no matter. We hold no reserve; not in battle, and not in love."

Merrill took a breath, feeling a little winded by his vehemence. She'd never expected such a… patriotic response, or such a passionate one.

The brown-haired Gondorian turned his face from her, attempting to ignore her existence, it would seem, and sped his steps.

Hoping to make some inroads, Merrill said sincerely, "It sounds truly beautiful, Boromir. I wish I could see it."

He grunted, but his mouth relaxed into something like neutrality, and he allowed his fists to unfurl from his sides.

Happy at the turn of the conversation, and determined to keep it going, Merrill matched his pace, ducking under a branch, and asked, "What are its streets like? Are there markets? Stalls? What does it smell of?"

"I could not hope to do its beauty justice," Boromir replied tersely.

"Oh," Merrill said quietly, staring down at her fingers.

He considered her from the corner of his eye and, seeing something there, said to the air, "… The streets are made of white cobble stones, the walls of white marble and limestone. The streets of the lower city have several sections of stalls. There, you can find spices from as far as Rhûn, and silks, jewels, and ivory from far Harad. Near the Wells district, where the taverns are, the air smells of roast and ale, but above, in the Citadel, the air is fresh as spring. It smells of the plains, of crisp snow off the mountain, freshly threshed wheat, and green grass wet with dew…" Boromir's eyes softened, and he smiled in distant remembrance. "And to the East, at the base of the White Mountains, is Lossarnach, the Vale of Flowers. In my youth, my brother and I spent a great deal of time in the apple orchards there. We ran through the sun filled meadows until our legs gave out beneath us, and we couldn't catch our breath for laughing. And when we were hungry, we feasted on fresh, sweet apples until our bellies near burst, and when we were thirsty, we drank deeply from the crystalline streams that ran along the estate. It was so cold, it stung our teeth. But we did not care so much, then. We were young, and nothing truly hurt."

Merrill smiled encouragingly and he continued, almost as if he could not stop, his eyes bright. "I remember the warmth of the westerly breeze, the tickle of the grass against my bare feet, and the sound of my brother's voice as he read to me. Before he was old enough to venture so far, my mother and I would often make the journey. On occasion, she could even convince my father to come along. She had a great fondness for apple blossoms, you see, and Lossarnach had the finest in Gondor. We spent hours lazing in the sun, and I recall falling asleep to her voice as she read from collections of her favorite poems, my head cushioned in her silken lap, her soft hands smoothing my hair…" Boromir blinked and cleared his throat, finishing a little stiffly, "Those days were all too brief, but I am glad to have had them, all the same."

Merrill cocked her head. "Why were they brief?"

The smile slipped from his face like mud, and he replied mechanically, "The forces of Mordor laid ruin to much of the valley in my seventeenth summer. Many of the apple trees burned, the streams ran dark with blood, the valley of flowers was trampled and strewn with the bodies of the dead, and my father disallowed my brother and myself from returning."

Merrill struggled for words, having never experienced such loss, such devastation, such violence. "I'm sorry. It's a shame it was lost."

Boromir laughed mirthlessly. "A shame, you say. It was not _lost_ , my lady; that word implies carelessness and a surfeit of attention. It was stolen. There is a great deal of difference."

Merrill backtracked. "Of course, I didn't mean to minimize—"

But he cut her off. "There is no need. Please excuse me, my lady." He inclined his head and stalked off, leaving her to gape after his retreating back.

 _Well, that went… well?_

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **(1) Part of, "Song of Durin," by J.R.R. Tolkien**

 **(2) The Past Was Goodly Once by W.E. Henley**

 **Thanks for your faves, follows, and reviews, all! It's gratifying to receive them, and they do truly keep me writing.**

 **This chapter was more about Boromir and Aragorn, really, but I hope you enjoyed it, all the same.**

 **I could write essays on this subject, but suffice it to say that Boromir is NOT a one-dimensional "bad-guy", but a complex and troubled man who deserves to be represented as such. His obsession towards the ring stems from his love: for his people, his homeland, and his family. That is all. Hardly a fault worthy of such censure, am I right?**

 **As for Aragorn, well, his disinterest in, and loathing of, his past needed to be highlighted. Briefly, he DOESN'T WANT TO RECLAIM his "birthright" but is forced to go on this quest, anyway. Also, his claim to the throne is, well, kind of laughable.  
**

 **Aragorn is descended from Isildur, but many of the Kings of Gondor were actually descended from Isildur's brother. Here's a quote from a post on the matter:**

 **"Why should Denethor bow to a ranger from the north simply because his ancestors used to sit on the throne of Gondor? It's not even like he is the lost son of the last king, it's been hundreds/thousands of years since Gondor has had a king.**

 **The time scales involved are really pretty incredible if you compare them to the real world. The gap in time is comparable to a modern-day distant cousin of William the Conqueror trying to claim the throne of England. And that's just the gap in time between LotR and the last time Gondor had a king at all; if you look at the last time Gondor had a king who was specifically a direct ancestor of Aragorn, it's more like the descendant of some early Iron-Age tribal monarch trying to claim the throne of England." - Search: Reddit, "Why are Boromir and Denethor hesitant to have Aragorn as the King of Gondor?"  
**

 **Rant over. :)**

 **Best wishes ~**


	33. Chapter 33

**"It is the hour when from the boughs**  
 **The nightingale's high note is heard;**  
 **It is the hour - when lover's vows**  
 **Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;**  
 **And gentle winds and waters near,**  
 **Make music to the lonely ear."**

 **\- Lord Byron, 'It is the Hour.'**

* * *

ooOoo

They camped that night with their back to the forest, hidden between two, small hillocks tufted with greenish-gold grass.

They had no fire that night; Aragorn explained to the disappointed Hobbits that their camp was too exposed, and any light would lead the enemy right to them.

The Hobbits acceded, finally, but grumbled all the while, watching Sam hungrily as he gingerly passed out dried rations before wolfing them down.

Merrill, having had her fill of conversation, and company, for the day, dug her latrine behind the first hillock nearest the trees before settling down to eat her jerky.

No one, it seemed, was feeling particularly chatty. In fact, all of them looked pretty done in with walking, excepting the Elves, of course, who, despite not having had the chance to bathe in two days, still looked fresh off the runway.

Radhrion spoke quietly with Aragorn at the edge of camp, Boromir sat amongst the Hobbits and Gimli, saying little, as was his wont, and Gandalf sat cross-legged near them, puffing on his pipe quite contentedly.

The moon had risen some time past, and it shone clearly upon their camp. A few, dark clouds, their sides silver in the light, scudded across the sky, moving further and further away with each breath of wind until the whole of the heavens were clear and the vast weight of the universe could be seen.

Merrill wondered, once again, at the clarity of the sky. The stars truly did look like jewels, here. It was easy to imagine reaching out and plucking them from the sky as one might an apple from a tree.

Sighing, she leaned back against the long grass, tugging a long, golden strand free from the earth and popping it between her teeth.

The wind was cool against her skin, and the grass waved around her head. She breathed in deep, closing her eyes; the smell of dried grass, the somewhat sweet, chalky scent of the dusty earth, and salted meat all met her nose. She sneezed repeatedly when the wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of unwashed men.

When she'd regained control of herself, she shifted her position so that she was upwind of the others and resettled against the earth, her tired limbs sinking into the grass as though it were a foam mattress.

The smell of juniper met her nose as someone sat in the grass beside her, and her ears tingled.

 _Legolas. Lovely._

Steeling herself, she gestured for him to speak, not bothering to open her eyes. "Go on."

She heard the whisper of the grass as he shifted his weight. Even without opening her eyes, she could picture him as he ordered his thoughts and weighed his words. He would gaze cinematically off towards the horizon, the shadow of a melancholic, yet, somehow, joyful smile around his lips as he thought, the faintest breeze dancing across his silvery-blonde hair in what would have been the perfect ad for men's shampoo if ads, or shampoo, were a thing in Middle Earth.

A soft voice interrupted her internal commentary, but, after the first sentence, she found she didn't much mind. His words were light, considered, and full of something more than the desire to communicate; they felt like poetry painted on the wind, or bits of birdsong encased in glass—an ethereal sort of wind-chime. "We linger in the shattered remnants of the silver, waking-dream that was our world. We make our homes in broken forests, in shadowed lands, in fading starlight under a dying moon. We dwell in the hollows of what came before, floundering in the emptiness, yearning for nothing more than to one day fill them. In our hearts, we know that this will never be. Yet to forget utterly, to willingly relinquish the stories of our kin, seems to me an act bordering on the profane. Each river has a mouth, each tree has its' roots, each night has its' dawn, and we have our pasts."

She shivered. Legolas was an articulate little bastard when the mood struck him. Merrill had silently acknowledged this long ago. But this thought paled in insignificance; part of her wanted to agree with him just because of how elegantly he had expressed himself.

She opened her eyes and turned her head, her braid bunching up beneath her. "But it can't be all; it can't be everything. Don't you see?"

His long, slender fingers stroked the grass. "How can it not? The past is our beginning; without it, what are we? What do we have? We, all of us, are but echoes of past people, past choices, past blunders. Take this from us, and what is there to emulate? From what might we even begin to build?"

"I agree that the past has some place in our lives, but I do not agree with the degree to which many of the peoples of this place revere it. The past is something that lead us here, as you said, but we shouldn't cling to it, comparing our present to its past glories. What does that accomplish but sorrow, resentment, and regret? By all means, remember the past, but do not allow your respect of it to obscure and diminish the joys of today."

He reclined beside her. "There is joy in every sorrow, acceptance in every regret, and placation in every resentment. The world contains vast multitudes, most of which appear, at first glance, to be in direct opposition, but which, when studied, prove themselves to be nothing more or less than varying notes of the same song."

Merrill chewed on this for a few minutes, turning his words over in her head as she would a rubiks cube. "So… you're saying that the past and the present are two sides of the same coin, yes?"

"I suppose…"

"Well, and forgive me for this, duh!" Merrill laughed.

"Explain," Legolas asked curtly.

Merrill rolled over so that she faced him, grinning. "Well, of course they are similar; they're words to describe two, opposing, but linked, ideas. 'Duh' means that what you said was obvious."

Legolas shook his head. "I do believe we have failed to understand one another once again. Though, at this juncture, I cannot say that I am at all astonished by this."

Merrill's eyes narrowed, and she asked in mock suspicion, "… Was that a _joke_ , Princeling?"

He heaved a deep sigh, clearly feeling decidedly ill-used, and replied tiredly, "I see my sense of humor continues to shock you, though this is far from the first time I have demonstrated it. What must I do to convince you of its existence?"

She smiled wickedly. "I have a few ideas…"

He held up his hand to forestall her. "No. Please forget I asked."

Merrill pouted, and he laughed, a clear, bright sound that made her happy, too. She reached out and brushed his cheek, marveling at the feel of his cool, smooth skin against her fingertips; he froze against her, wide blue eyes meeting her own hazel for a single, breathless moment.

 _Why in the hell did I just do that?!_ She shrieked internally, staring helplessly at her traitorous hand. _Quick! Do something!_

Her fingers twitched hesitantly and, seeing no other recourse, she bopped him on the nose and rolled to her feet, stretching with a nonchalance she did not feel. But she was determined she should leave first, this time, rather than allow him to pull away as he'd done before. "I'm gonna grab some more jerky. Want some?"

Legolas shook his head from where he still sat, his expression closed and just a little wary.

Merrill chose to ignore that. "Okaydokey. More for me." She tried to walk away with an air of unconcern, but her legs jerked a little like she was being controlled by an epileptic puppet master, and her shoulders were so tense they were almost touching her ears.

 _Idiot!_ She scolded herself as she drew up alongside Radhrion, whose gaze trailed back towards Legolas; he frowned. _What in the hell were you thinking?!_

"Little bird?" Radhrion questioned.

 _I would never have done something like that back home. What in the hell has gotten into me?!_

"Radhrion?" Merrill asked, hands wrapping around his arm.

He tucked her hands more firmly against his side and patted her arm. "Come. I believe it might be time you and I had a chat."

He led her away from the camp, turning back towards the trees. Only when he had surveyed the area fully did he gesture for her to take a seat in the grass, though he remained standing, pacing in tight semi-circles around her.

Merrill watched him for a few moments; the last time he had been this agitated had been right after she'd woken in the House of Healing after her ill-considered outing with Glorfindel. "Ronny?"

His cloud-gray eyes met hers, and he rubbed his hand over his lips, saying slowly, "I believe there is something you should know, my dear. Both Elrond and myself, well, we—that is to say, our kind have rather unique views on love and courtship, and it would appear it is time that I explained them to you."

 _Wait…_ Merrill thought incredulously. _He isn't going to give me 'the talk', is he?_ Horror rose up in her chest like a wave, and she squeaked, "This isn't nece—"

Radhrion silenced her with a gentle glare. "I wouldn't do so if I did not believe it to be necessary, Merrill. Our ways of courting differ from that of humans largely because, well, a fortunate few of us have fëa mates; those for whom we are destined, and to whom we belong. We do not, as a rule, court those whom we do not instinctually feel to be our mates, because, to the Elven, love is a sacred bond—a trust—that defies time, itself. So, you see, we do not, as humans do, court without purpose, or with ulterior motives. When we initiate courtship, it is because we know, in our souls, that we have found the one to whom our hearts belong. But it is a solemn undertaking, my dear. This bond brings with it much joy—happiness the likes of which you've never known— but in times such as these, many of our kind forego such a union, for it is perilous even to contemplate. If your bond mate were to die, the pain of that loss would be beyond comprehension, and it is likely that you would not long survive them."

Merrill felt her mouth hanging open, but her brain was too busy scrambling to understand Radhrion's words to worry about her dignity. She remembered something Nidhion had said on the subject, about those who were bonded fading when their loved one died, and shuddered; she really should have asked him more. "So…" Merrill began, licking her suddenly dry lips, "Elves aren't interested in anyone but their fëa mates?"

Radhrion nodded gravely. "Just so."

Merrill sat up straighter, hugging her knees to her chest and gazing, unseeingly, out over the moon-soaked plains. The light of the stars had bleached the grass until it appeared almost white, and the details she could not quite make out appeared as gray smudges against the dark. In the distance, she could just make out Legolas, his silver hair shining like a star fallen to earth. He stood with his back to them, his bow clutched in his hands, and Merrill gulped and looked away.

Radhrion sat beside her, nudging her with his elbow to get her attention when she didn't acknowledge him. "Do you understand what it is I mean to say, my dear? You must be cautious around him. You are leaving, after all, and it would be unimaginably cruel to you both if you were to bind yourself to him."

Merrill stilled, a sudden, unwelcome suspicion sending a chill down her spine. "Does he know?" she asked in a small, distant voice, barely recognizing it as her own.

"…Yes, he does."

Merrill sucked in a breath; Legolas knew. She thought back on their strange interactions; he approached, seemed interested, and then retreated. The only day he hadn't done so, the only day he had shown her something like interest, was the first day they'd met. After that, he withdrew, though his curiosity brought him to her side more often than he probably would have liked. Merrill recalled the night of the feast; Legolas had waited outside her door to escort her, having claimed the honor from Radhrion, but even as they'd spoken, even as she insulted him, even when he could not for the life of him understand anything she said, he had remained by her side.

 _Legolas's eyes were closed tight against her, his warm, sweet breath fanning out against her skin, his strong hands gently cupping her face, but he grimaced as though in pain. "… it is just as he said."_

The sound of crickets pricked at Merrill's sensitive ears, the usually soothing song sharp and wrong. Her cheeks flamed with something decidedly unlike delight, and she held her cool hands up to them to quell their heat, eyes following patterns in the grass before her. They'd known—they'd all known about this—and no one had thought to tell her.

Merrill gripped at her knees a little more tightly. "What did you mean, earlier, about Elrond?"

Radhrion fiddled with his ring. "Elrond knew the moment you and Legolas met that you were destined. The 'concussion' you sustained? It was an adverse reaction to meeting your fëa mate, darling. Elrond believes you reacted so strangely because of your… origins, just as you reacted oddly to the Miruvor. Legolas was likewise affected; he remained in the House of Healing with you for the better part of the day before his hearing returned, presumably at the precise moment _your_ hearing returned. Your unusual circumstances have modified the process, it would seem, though not in essentials."

Merrill reached up and touched her long ears; they tingled whenever she felt close to him, and she recalled that first day when she'd lost her hearing and the whole world swam before her eyes. The only person she could hear was him.

Her hands fell from her ears, and she heard herself ask faintly, "But why is he avoiding me? Does he know that I'm leaving?"

Radhrion rested his hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Yes, my dear. Elrond spoke to him. The morning I went to Elrond to ask him to allow your presence on the quest, in fact. He told me then what had occurred. Legolas had come to him before me, after you and he had argued about your desire to join the Fellowship, I believe, to beg Elrond to refuse you. The lad was so agitated, Elrond thought it best that he should be warned against forming an attachment to you. But he did not divulge the truth of your origins, little bird—on that score you needn't worry. Elrond merely conveyed that, due to unusual circumstances, you would not long remain in this world, and reminded him, gently, of his father's desire that he should forego forming such an attachment in these troubled times."

"So Elrond told him that we were… soul mates?" When Radhrion nodded, she continued, "And—I just—what does any of us this even mean, Ronny? Soul mates aren't a thing in my world. None of this makes any sense!" A horrible thought crossed her mind. "Wait. If he gets hurt or dies… will I die, too?"

Radhrion shook his head a little more slowly than she would've liked and said carefully, "No. Only if you were bonded."

Merrill turned towards him rather abruptly, and made an impatient noise in her throat. "What does that _mean_?"

Radhrion flushed, his cheeks and ears reddening, and he spun his ring even faster round his finger. "Well, that is to say—in point of fact—" He cleared his throat and mumbled to his hands, "Bonding is like marriage, in a way. But it is done privately, and there is no exchange of rings… it is a… joining, of sorts."

When she lifted one brow imperiously, her lips pursed, he sighed. "There is a ceremony, there are vows, of a kind, but it is predominantly a physical and spiritual joining…"

The faintest tingling of comprehension lit behind her eyes like the fuse on a stick of dynamite, and, when the explosion occurred and her conclusions had been drawn, Merrill blushed brighter than Radhrion and looked everywhere but at him, coughing nervously.

"Oh," she said simply after she'd caught her breath.

"Quite," Radhrion replied dryly, tugging at the end of his tunic and brushing his breeches free of invisible dust.

An awkward silence descended upon them like a swarm of stinging flies, causing them both to shift and fidget uncomfortably. She certainly hadn't expected to have this conversation with Radhrion. But, somehow, the embarrassment lost its sting as she considered his words; she and Legolas were soul mates, bound by something like fate or destiny to be together always. Merrill wanted to scoff at this notion, chuckle derisively at the quaint and foolish idea of true love, but, even as she thought this, her heart swelled; even she, the cynic's cynic, couldn't deny the compliment it contained. To even be considered as the fated match of so remarkable a person was as flattering as it was terrifying. Of course, that didn't mean she was going to do anything about it. She wasn't even supposed to be in this world in the first place; this whole situation was some sort of cosmic blunder. But she couldn't keep the small voice in her mind from wondering why, if her presence here was truly a mistake, she had been given a soul mate in Middle Earth, in the first place. Merrill didn't much approve of this voice, so she did as she always did and kicked it to a dusty corner of her mind to be considered later (i.e. avoided at all costs and with extreme prejudice).

"I'll be fine," Merrill said finally, her tone business-like as she got to her feet and brushed off her breeches. "Now that I know, I won't fall for him."

When Radhrion quirked his brow dubiously, Merrill scoffed, "Seriously? There's no way you don't believe me. Forgetting, for the sake of argument, that I am leaving, there is also the fact that I am still human, mortal, under all of this." She tugged at one of her ears to illustrate her point. "Even if I did stay, which I never would, how long would we even have together? I would eventually die knowing my death would mean his own. And how could I live knowing that? I mean, what kind of masochist would I be if I pursued him after learning all of this?"

Radhrion smiled sadly, a shadow in his eyes. "The ordinary kind."

She nudged him with her foot to silence him and turned away, but her eyes moved of their own volition until they found Legolas standing where she'd last seen him, his head tilted up, gazing into the dark blue vault of the sky. He smiled that soft, secretive smile of his, the light of the heavens reflected in the blue of his eyes, moonlight glowing off his fair skin, and Merrill's breath caught, her ears tingled, and her heart stopped.

 _Well, shit._

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Sorry for the wait, guys! I screwed up my back doing something stupid and haven't been able to sit (or do much of anything else) since.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter, and I'll get back to your reviews next time.**

 **Thanks so much for the comments, the likes, and the follows, and see you next week!**

 **Best wishes ~**


	34. Chapter 34

**"Can't keep my hands to myself**  
 **Think I'll dust 'em off, put 'em back up on the shelf**  
 **In case my little baby girl is in need**  
 **Am I coming out of left field?"**

 **\- Portugal, "Feel it Still."**

* * *

ooOoo

The next two weeks passed with excruciating slowness.

Merrill did her best to avoid Legolas, and, for the most part, she was successful. But the fact was, they were on a super secret quest, constantly within a few feet of one another, with nowhere to hide or retreat to where the other could not easily find them, so avoidance only worked so well.

Legolas, too, from what she had observed, did his best to maintain his distance. But whenever she looked up, his steady, blue eyes were on her. It made her think that he somehow _knew_ that _she_ knew that _he_ knew, a thought she couldn't contemplate with any sort of emotional equanimity.

When she took her watch, he volunteered to watch alongside her, though he remained on the opposite end of camp. When she went to bathe for the first time since Rivendell, he stood silent guard, keeping everyone away without her asking. When she wearied of walking, he would, inexplicably, recommend a halt to Aragorn. When she went to fill her water skin before they moved out each morning, she found it with her things, already full.

It was driving her crazy.

She ignored him for the most part, walking with Radhrion or the Hobbits, but there were times she found her steps slowing, found herself falling back, until she strode beside him at the rear of the party. They never spoke when this happened, but he smiled his cautious smile, the one that crinkled the skin around his eyes, and a tsunami of butterflies would erupt in her stomach at the sight.

In other words, she was royally screwed, and no, the irony of this phrasing was not lost on her.

Merrill often caught Radhrion watching her whenever she was within Legolas' vicinity, an unmistakable warning in his cloud-gray eyes, but he said no more on the subject, and he made no mention when she began to join him for his watch, far too awake after her own to sleep.

"There!" Aragorn called, and Merrill blinked to awareness, squinting into the sunbaked landscape ahead of her. "We will take our rest at the top of that hill."

Boromir came to a halt beside her, his fur-lined cloak hanging haphazardly out of his pack, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, panting a little. "We've reached Hollin already?"

"Yes," Radhrion said from the front, a smile in his voice. "We've made excellent time."

"I'm sweatin' like a hog on the spit!" Gimli grumbled from somewhere behind them; the sun did not agree with him, it seemed, and he sweated more than even Boromir, his face flush with exertion and heat. "Lassie, how can ye stand it? You look as cool and fresh as a spring breeze."

Merrill glanced down at herself; she was, indeed, perfectly cool. "I dunno…" She shrugged, her lips twisting. "Elf thing?"

Gimli swore colorfully under his breath, surprising even Merrill with his creativity, and Pippin choked.

Legolas swept up alongside her, almost dancing across the earth, and smirked at a fuming Gimli. "It is because she was created for this, Dwarf." He met and held her eyes, a loaded smile on his lips. "As was I."

It was Merrill's turn to choke; Pippin pounded her on the back until she caught her breath, smiling sympathetically.

Gandalf peered down from the hillock, his bushy brows slanted sharply in annoyance. "I do _so_ hope we aren't keeping you," he hinted waspishly.

The Hobbits sprung to and scrambled joyfully up the hill, Sam pulling his master by the elbow, and Merry and Pippin shoving one another and giggling merrily. They crested the hill and out of sight, the clanging and jangling of Sam's pots and pans growing fainter and fainter until they'd faded away entirely.

Boromir huffed, resettling his pack over his shoulder before trudging up the hill, his steps heavy, and Legolas flew up it in a flash, like a silver comet, leaving Merrill and Gimli to plod and grouse behind them.

When they'd reached the top, Gimli dropped his gear and flung himself on a rock near the fire Sam was already busy building, wheezing like a fish on dry land. Merrill glanced around, noting Legolas atop another rock at the far end of the camp, gazing out into the valley below, and shuffled in the opposite direction, setting her things down beside Aragorn before taking a seat.

She groaned; sitting was a wonderful, wonderful thing.

The warm rock beneath her eased the dull ache in her thighs, and she reclined happily, stretching herself so that she lay flat against its warmth like a sun-drunk cat. The rest of the hillock had similarly situated masses of red rock interspersed with sparse and spiky vegetation. Bushes whose name she did not know dotted the landscape. They were squat, staying low to the ground, and their leaves were more bramble than anything.

Above, the sky was the blue of pastels with fluffy, cream-colored clouds skating across its length; the sun was the pale gold of winter, its rays just warm enough to counteract the occasional sharp blasts of the cool mountain air, which smelled of frost and pine.

To her immediate right, Legolas sat, his feet hanging in the empty air below him. His lips moved, but, if he spoke, she could not hear, and a dreamy expression rippled across his face.

"What do you sing, Legolas?"

Merrill blinked out of her reverie; Aragorn, it appeared, had noticed Legolas, too.

The Elf in question glanced over his shoulder. "A song you know well, mellon nin: Glíren i Tinnúviel."

Aragorn nodded, a wistful expression softening his dark gray eyes. "I should like to hear it once more; it has been a great many years since last the Elves of Rivendell had recourse for such joyous song."

"Ben iest lîn," Legolas said, bowing his head in acknowledgment before turning back to face the horizon. His voice was soft and light, the essence of dappled sunlight dancing atop the crystal surface of a shaded pool, but swelled with the fullness of his emotion and grew sweeter than Honeysuckle the longer he sang:

 _"_ _A maid there was, both tall and fair,_

 _With dancing shadows in her hair._

 _And eyes as bright as verdant spring;_

 _All loved her who heard her sing._

 _But I, sad unfortunate, ill-fated elf,_

 _Heard her but once sing to herself._

 _When her sweet voice first took wing,_

 _She stole away my suffering,_

 _And left me in a drunken daze,_

 _Lost to reason in her gaze._

 _The trees grew hushed in quiet thought,_

 _As if some magic spell were wrought,_

 _And birds perched, breathless, in the boughs,_

 _Their voices soft as lover's vows._

 _Even the river slowed and stilled_

 _To listen, and the clearing filled_

 _With bursts of sunlight, broadly beaming,_

 _I was left awake, but dreaming –_

 _Of the maid so twilight fair,_

 _With smoke and shadow in her hair,_

 _And a voice as sweet as summer wine –_

 _Were to Eru she were mine!"_

Legolas's gaze fell upon her like a living, weighted thing, his blue eyes heavy against her face. Their expression was somewhere between demand and plea, so much so that Merrill was forced to look away, her hand rising to rest against her chest, her fingers splaying over her heart.

Aragorn clapped lightly, a true smile spreading across his face like the first rosy rays of sunlight over the mountains. "You do my heart much good, Legolas. I thank you."

Legolas nodded in acknowledgment, then sighed, pushing his long hair over his shoulder. Merrill couldn't help but admire the shimmering fall of silver as it whispered down his back, facets of gold catching the sunlight in a display that left her a little light-headed. _Why does he have to be so damn beautiful?!_ At that precise moment, almost as if he'd heard her thoughts, he glanced over his shoulder to respond to something Aragorn had said, and Merrill's breath whooshed out of her lungs. It was silly, really, that his smile could affect her so much, but affect her it did. His lips, seashell pink and full, slid into a smile so sweet that her heart actually constricted within her chest. Legolas's eyes kindled as he spoke, reflecting the light of the day, the blue of the sky, as naturally as he breathed; he was as much a part of the land as the rocks they sat upon, yet, somehow, distinct in a way she couldn't quite put her finger on.

The wind shifted, and the scent of pine met her nose just as Radhrion came to a stop beside her, a queer smile on his lips. She swiveled away from him, her ears burning at the direction her thoughts had taken; she'd promised Radhrion she wouldn't pursue Legolas, and she intended to keep her word, even if doing so was proving more difficult than she had initially anticipated. For some reason, knowing that they were soul mates, that Legolas _knew_ they were soul mates, made it all too easy to fall for him. Merrill resettled herself atop the rock, schooling her features into what she hoped was a gray sort of vagueness, and then returned her attention to the conversation as naturally as she was then able.

Radhrion casually rested his hand upon her shoulder, but the slight squeeze communicated more than enough; it was warning and reminder in one. Merrill gritted her teeth but nodded. He was right, of course, and denying that fact wouldn't do her any favors. _I'm not staying here. This isn't my home._ A flash of eyes the color of bluebells, and the remembrance of warm hands smoothing along her cheeks interrupted her, and she growled. _Get it together, Merrill!_ She set her hands in her lap, clasping them tight enough to bruise, and stared at a point somewhere to the left of Aragorn's right ear.

"I did not think so simple a song would continue so esteemed, with younger Elves, especially. Tell me, wherever did you learn _The Nightingale's Song_?"

Legolas leaned back against the rock behind him, his gaze considering as it flitted from Radhrion's hand on her shoulder, to her lap, where her fingers twisted against one another fiercely. One fine, silvery eyebrow lifted at this, and he met Radhrion's gaze coolly. "It was my mother who first taught it me. She was quite partial to simple songs, and to the union of the two of whom it speaks, of course, as are most of our kind."

Radhrion's hand retracted, joining its brother in creating a bar across his broad chest. "Yes, your mother _would_ enjoy that story, considering hers and your fathers' own somewhat tumultuous path to love."

Something flashed across Legolas's eyes, but his voice was smooth when he replied, "My father tells me of her often, and speaks of their courtship with great fondness." He got to his feet and made to walk past Radhrion, but stopped once he'd drawn up alongside him and said without turning his head, "Though it is true that my grandfather was not, at first, thrilled with the match, he knew that he could no more block their love than he could his own for my grandmother. The Elvish heart is not so easily swayed when once it has found the one for whom it has longed; it will make unthinkable sacrifices, dare every danger, risk every pain, if it means being whole. I believe you know this to far greater a degree than most, _Radhrion_."

A cool hauteur overcame Radhrion's usually cheery expression, and he called after Legolas's retreating back in a tone thick with warning, "Avo gesto a thrastad, Legolas." (1)

"Nidh-sui guren bêd enni." Legolas twisted his hand over his heart and made his way to the others, leaving Merrill to stand beside a silently fuming Radhrion and a quietly curious Aragorn. (2)

Merrill cleared her throat. "All that's missing are a few tumbleweeds in the background, a pair of pistols, and Clint Eastwood asking if you're feeling lucky…" When Radhrion merely grunted in reply, Merrill poked him in the arm. "Care to share with the class, Ronny?"

"Not particularly, little bird." Radhrion's lips tilted up in a half-smile and he ruffled her hair. "I have said all I wish to upon the subject."

Merrill frowned; his smile was warm, but his eyes were colder than the winds coming down off the mountain. She decided to let it go, for the present, and allow him some space. It was clear to her that they had spoken, obliquely, at least, of Legolas's and her own predicament, and the outcome had not been favorable for either.

 _I need to be more careful. I don't want Ronny having to worry about this soul mate business when he should be worrying about staying alive._

Aragorn came to her side and they both watched Radhrion amble away, hands tucked deep in his breeches pockets, his expression easing back into something like his customary good humor.

The Ranger considered her with his dark, gray eyes until she felt she might scream. "What?"

He shook his head, his hand coming up to rub at his dark beard. "I do not know the particulars, but it would appear that you and I have more in common than I had, at first, believed."

 _Whatever_ _ **that**_ _means. Obnoxious, enigmatic…_ Merrill huffed, choosing, instead, to flop back down onto her rock with bad grace by way of reply.

After a moment's hesitation, Aragorn patted her lightly on the shoulder then resumed his previous position without another word and, though Merrill was a little irritated from recent events, a small part of her rejoiced at this gesture of camaraderie from their fearless leader.

A contented silence fell over them like the softest of blankets, and they lazed about until Sam began passing out the food. The others began calling out jokes and Merrill relaxed, feeling perfectly at ease. It was beginning to feel like a group, a fellowship, rather than a conglomeration of several cliques as it had before, though Radhrion and Legolas were stiffer in their speech to one another than was usual.

"Here," Aragorn said, offering her a bowl of food as he took his seat.

Shocked, Merrill accepted it, sitting up and mumbling, "Thank you."

He took a bite of sausage, smiling slightly at her obvious confusion, but said nothing more until they'd both finished their meal.

Merrill looked about for Radhrion and found him a few yards away with Boromir, training Merry and Pippin with their short swords and seemingly having the time of his life. Even Boromir was grinning; she hadn't thought he knew how.

Aragorn removed the short pipe from his lips and barked, "Move your feet, Merry!"

A faint squeak was all the reply he received as Merry darted away from Radhrion's blow.

Merrill chuckled under her breath, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "Why aren't you down there, Aragorn?"

Aragorn exhaled, a cloud of smoke rising into the air before his face making his grey eyes glitter like pyrite. He stretched his long legs out before him, crossing them at the ankle, and rested his head back against his pack. "It may astonish you to learn that I am not the most patient of men. Radhrion and Boromir, however, seem to be enjoying themselves, and the Hobbits are, for once, well occupied. I wouldn't dream of interfering."

He yawned and, for a moment, he looked like a big, grey wolf to her; a wolf unused to the company of others, covered in the scars of former battles, with a wariness in his wise eyes. But Merrill knew that, in the right circumstances, he could be just as playful as a puppy; she'd seen something of that in him whenever he was with Arwen. Aragorn was lighter in her presence, taller, and impossible to overlook. He even held himself differently.

Which lead her to wondering what had happened to him… _Had he given her up? Had Elrond forbidden their union?_

Merrill sat back and replied, "I don't know. I think you're selling yourself short."

"You are aware that your manner of speech is often incomprehensible to most of us, yes?"

"It means that you're not giving yourself enough credit… Still no?" Aragorn shook his head, and Merrill tried again, "Well, it means you're doing yourself a disservice by not accepting, um… accolades for qualities you most certainly possess?"

He considered her over his pipe, his steady stare disconcerting. "Selling myself short… would that mean that I am selling something for much less than it is worth, but in relation to myself?"

"Exactly! That was some top of the line nut-shelling, pal."

"I cannot keep up with your odd phrasing," he said good-naturedly. "I have never heard your like, and I have travelled for most of my life."

Merrill tried not to fidget; the unspoken question between them growing: _Where are you from?_

She shrugged by way of reply, taking a sip from her water-skin for something to do. It was in times like this when she missed her cell phone the most; it was the perfect item to fidget with to cover awkward silences. It was in her pack, true, but it was hardly helpful in Middle Earth. That, and it had run out of battery months ago.

Aragorn did not take offense to her silence. On the contrary, he seemed quite comfortable, his eyes half-lidded in the sun as he watched the antics of the Hobbits below them.

An eerie feeling crept along her skin suddenly, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up; Merrill checked behind her, but found only Legolas, an expression of confusion mirroring her own clear on his face.

She cocked her head at him. _What is it?_

He scanned the valley, paying particular attention to anything enemies might use as cover, before turning troubled blue eyes back on her and shaking his head, his hands fiddling with his bow, his feet shifting uncertainly. _I do not yet know… but there is something foul on the air._

Merrill stood and brushed her breeches off; she met Aragorn's questioning look. "Something doesn't feel right."

He was on his feet, his pipe stowed, within seconds, gesturing Legolas over.

"Do you sense what Merrill senses?"

Legolas nodded. "I cannot quite discern whence the threat comes, however."

Aragorn patted him on the shoulder before loping off to seek Gandalf, leaving her alone with Legolas.

Something tickled her memory… _Why is this so familiar?_ A cry from one of the Hobbits dragged her attention away; Merry was shaking his hand as though he'd been cut, and Boromir held his own hands before him, apologizing profusely, before both Hobbits launched themselves at him, the smallest of war cries splitting the air. Boromir laughed at the ferocity of his attackers, even as they knocked him to the ground, and suddenly, Merrill knew.

"HIDE!" she bellowed, stooping to grab her things.

She threw her pack into the bushes and moved to put the fire out before Legolas laid his hand on her shoulder to stop her. "Merrill, explain, please."

She jerked out of his hold and cast about for water. "There's no time! One of the baddies—the white one—is sending his spies to us. They'll be here any moment. We have to hide!" She doused the fire, barely registering Gandalf's support as he seconded her order.

In moments, Legolas cried, "Crebain! From Dunland!" And Merrill sped up, shoving Frodo and Sam into one of the bushes without a second thought.

"Merrill!" She whipped around to see Radhrion, his cloud-gray eyes frantic. "HIDE!"

And then she was falling into a thicket, the brambles scratching her face and tearing at her hair. Merrill yelped as she hit the ground, and wheezed as something heavy landed atop her.

"What the—"

Legolas covered her mouth with his hand, his blue eyes wide in warning, and she nodded her understanding just as what sounded like hail hit the camp and a great shadow blotted out the sunlight.

She squeezed her eyes shut. How had she ended up like this? Every inch of her body was in contact with Legolas, the height of the bush not allowing them room for personal space. His sword belt dug into her hip, his legs lay firmly between her own, his silver hair tickled her cheek, and his warm breath settled in the hollows of her semi-exposed collarbones, causing a flood of goosebumps to spill down her chest.

 _This is it._ Merrill thought, face practically bursting into flames as she attempted to control her breathing. _This is how I die. Funny, I always thought I would be more frightened… Am I finally an existentialist? Have I learned to accept my death with dignity simply by living my life to the fullest in the face of it?_

Something touched her face, interrupting her giddy thoughts, and she unclosed her eyes. All she could see was Legolas, his blue eyes brighter than the desert sky after rain, his face glowing like the sun.

"…awake, but dreaming…" he murmured, his eyes alight with sudden insight. His attention shifted momentarily, and he smiled tenderly, brushing the eagle shorn curl off her cheek, his fingertips following it down towards her ear with deliberate slowness, tracing the outer shell lightly.

Merrill's breath hitched and her heart stuttered to a stop. His smile grew even wider at her reaction, and, with careful hands, he tucked the rebellious curl behind her ear.

"There," he whispered hoarsely, licking his lips, "set to rights once more, Merrill Mabray."

She shuddered at his tone, her throat going dry. _Oh,_ she thought, realization dawning _. Oh, no. I am in so much trouble._

Legolas's fingertips flowed down until they settled beneath her chin, pressing insistently until she looked at him. The expression in his blue eyes was more serious than she had ever seen; his thumb grazed her lower lip, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her stomach that made her legs tremble.

Merrill whimpered, abandoning good sense, and reached up impatiently to pull his face to hers. He hesitated, confusion and longing struggling upon his face, before swallowing thickly and allowing it, the silk of his lips a breath away—

"Come out! They've gone."

Merrill half-threw him off of her, scrambling to her feet, her face beet red, and her breathing harsh and erratic. She tugged fiercely at the hem of her tunic and ran a shaking hand through her mussed curls. _Oh my god, oh my god –what the hell was I thinking? Idiot! Radhrion warned you about this!_

Legolas gained his feet gracefully, his face carefully blank; Merrill imagined his internal dialogue was similar to her own, and felt even more the fool. _I can't do this to him! I'm leaving!_

She strode purposefully away and towards the others, who all stood uncertainly where, just moments before, the Hobbits had sparred and playfully joked with Boromir and Radhrion.

"What were those things?" Merry asked, staring at the black smudge in the distance.

Gandalf leaned heavily on his staff, his blue-grey hat shielding much of his expression, and said tiredly, "Saruman's spies." He turned his attention to Aragorn, who stood beside him, his sword pointed toward the ground. "The pass south is being watched, as Gwaihir claimed."

Radhrion appeared by her side, his own sword out, his cloud gray eyes stormy. "Then we must attempt Caradhras, Gandalf, as we predicted we might. There is no other way."

"Why not take the road west to my city?" Boromir interjected, sliding his sword into its sheath. "It is the more direct path, and we are sure to receive aid there."

Aragorn shook his dark head. "No, that road takes us too close to Isengard, and Saruman is sure to have it watched. I'm afraid we must take the mountain."

At this, the Fellowship turned as one and faced the mountain; the sun reflected off of its snowy sides, making it painful to look upon, its' peak was shrouded in thunderous, gray clouds, and there was no discernible path.

Merrill sidled a little closer to Radhrion, her arm snaking through his own, and assiduously avoided looking towards where she could _feel_ Legolas standing. Radhrion patted the back of her hand reassuringly, but his gaze remained fixed on the mountain, and grim lines were drawn around his lips.

"It doesn't look so very bad, really," Pippin chirped optimistically. "It actually seems like rather a nice walk."

A bolt of lightning lit the sky, cracking against the mountain with an audible boom that left the hair on Merrill's arms standing on end, and a wave of snow and rock tumbled down and down into the nothingness below. Merry nodded as though he'd fully expected such an outcome, and patted a gaping Pippin on the back before stooping to gather his belongings.

The others seemed just as unruffled as Merry. Boromir sheathed his sword and slung his pack over one shoulder, his expression as solid and gray as the mountain they faced, Aragorn's sharp eyes zeroed in on each member of the company, lingering longest on Frodo's slumped frame, clearly considering the welfare of the company as opposed to the welfare of the quest, and Sam rummaged through the bushes in search of his, and his master's, packs, grumbling darkly beneath his breath about evil wizards who couldn't leave well enough alone.

Even Gandalf, staid and stoic Gandalf, contemplated the difficult climb ahead with very little pleasure. The brim of his hat cast most of his face in shadow, but Merrill could just make out the firm set of his jaw, the taut stretch of his shoulders, and the wide stance of his feet; even Merrill, with very little combat experience to speak of, recognized a battle stance when she saw one.

Try as she might, she couldn't remember anything of note occurring on the mountainside and so did not look upon the mountain with as much dread as her companions. Did she fancy trekking up a snow covered mountain? Hell no, but at least they wouldn't be attacked… or she hoped they would not be, at least. Merrill shuffled a little closer to Radhrion, tucking her body behind his so as not to be seen. Not for the first time, she wished she'd been able to watch the movies or read the books again before being stranded in Middle Earth.

Merrill rested her head against Radhrion's shoulder and closed her eyes; nothing was going to happen on that mountain. They would not be attacked, and they'd all come through unscathed.

With this thought in mind, Merrill opened her eyes and froze; Legolas had moved while she'd thought and now stood opposite her, though at a distance, his face stiff, his gaze unyielding.

 _Yeah,_ she thought as she closed her eyes once more, _I might not have to worry about orcs or wizards on the mountain, but I'm going to have to deal with him, and that just might be worse._

Gimli cleared his throat, clipped his axe back to his belt, and said briskly, "Well? What are we waiting for?"

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Thanks to everyone who followed/favorited, and especially to:**

 **Imladriss, a ton of Guests, Aralinn, LetsGoKoby, Tibblets, Pelawen Night, Convalla91, tadah2, MariaJulietbituin, JcRxo, Mediocre Dunces, RozenMaiden14, Brea2020, MariaJane716, SwanCall, and Raider-K for your lovely, lovely reviews! I love hearing your thoughts on the story and I appreciate you all taking the time to comment. :)**

 **Anyway, quick question for you all: would you prefer waiting longer for updates, but getting longer chapters, or continuing as we are now with the average chapter being around 3,500 to 4,000 words long and me updating about every two-ish weeks? Let me know in the comments!**

 **I don't have much more written after this, so it might be a longer wait for the next update. I'm trying to balance my satisfaction with the story and the time it takes to get it out to you guys, so bear with me please! :)**

 **Thanks again, and best wishes ~**

 **(1) Do not look for trouble, Legolas.**

 **(2) I intend to do as my heart tells me.**

 **P.S.**

 **The song in this chapter is my own creation. It's about Beren as he sees Luthien, but Legolas may have taken a few liberties with some of the lyrics.**


	35. Chapter 35

" **One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,  
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.  
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie."  
― J. R. R. Tolkien, "The Fellowship of the Ring." **

* * *

ooOoo

After gathering their things, the Fellowship began the long trek up the mountain.

Perversely, Merrill was thankful for the arduous climb, as it gave her less time to think about her predicament with Legolas. Not that thoughts of him were kept at bay, entirely. On the contrary, Merrill spent most of her time vacillating between admonishing herself for encouraging him, to berating herself for the idiotic reflex that had pushed him away.

In between bouts of self-chastisement, Merrill also attempted to physically avoid Legolas. So focused was she that she failed to notice the ever-increasing incline, or the shift from hard-packed earth to snow and ice covered rock. She even failed to notice that she was walking atop the snow. Her mind was more agreeably engaged recalling the soft, silver fall of his hair as it skimmed her collarbones, the warm press of his chest as it brushed against her own, and the bright, blue longing she saw in his eyes.

A little dreamily, Merrill tugged the collar of her tunic from beneath her armor and held it to her nose: juniper, mint, and sunshine— _him_.

Merrill slipped and sunk up to her knees in snow, blinking slowly. When had she categorized those smells in such a… sentimental fashion?

She clambered clumsily to her feet and trudged on, wading through the snow, now, like the rest of the party, her strange ability vanishing without her having noticed it, at all.

 _I've used Juniper and Mint in plenty of things since I've come here. Mint is popular in balms for arthritis and in brews for the common cold. Some Elves use it in their lotions and hair products. Hell, I've used Mint and Juniper, both, in my bath oils!_

Merrill thumped the side of her head, hoping this percussive maintenance would return her brain to working order. _We are NOT doing this, Merrill. There are a hundred reasons why this is a no-good, very bad idea, all of which you know. So do NOT romanticize him. Date on Earth! You know, where your REAL life is waiting for you?_

The only problem with this suggestion, and one which Merrill acknowledged uncomfortably, was that she had never been interested in anyone romantically back home. She'd dated James, Anne's brother, right before she'd graduated high school, but it didn't last very long, and she had never felt anything with him that could hold a candle to the way Legolas had made her feel a few hours previous.

James had been kind, handsome, and roguishly charming, but Merrill felt for him just as she felt for Anne; she loved him, enjoyed his company, but kissing him left her empty. In fact, until her arrival in Middle Earth, Merrill had truly believed she was asexual.

 _Warm breaths ghosting over her lips, trembling fingers brushing down her jaw, trailing down her throat, skating along the heated flesh of her collarbone—_

Merrill growled, thoroughly disgusted with her lack of will-power, and only just refrained from stomping her feet like a petulant four year old denied a treat. _No more thinking about Legolas, you!_

With an enormous effort, Merrill turned her attention to the others, hoping to strike up a conversation as a possible means of distraction, but the scene that met her eyes told her that she would be fending for herself for quite some time.

The chill fingers of the wind worked their way beneath cloaks and tunics, whistling past ears and assaulting eyes until tears streamed down faces and the Hobbits' cheeks glowed red with the cold.

Legolas glided atop the snow at the very front of the company, scouting their path and reporting back to Gandalf every so often, whose naturally grumpy tendencies were decidedly NOT improved by the cold, and Aragorn gripped the sides of his cloak tight against the cutting wind, just beginning to struggle through the drifts which had already slowed Gimli and the Hobbits.

The only person that Merrill could see that was not bothered by the cold was, oddly, Boromir.

The stern Gondorian marched single-mindedly behind the Hobbits, his cloak flapping freely behind him, his right hand dropping every so often to fondle the handle of the sword at his hip.

While the others still tried for the occasional burst of conversation, Boromir didn't even make the effort to respond when directly addressed; he just continued to tramp up the hill, one foot after another, those gray eyes narrowed against the wind and focused unflinchingly on the back of Frodo's head.

After a few hours more had passed, and the sun had begun to set, they'd finally reached a path, though Merrill privately thought that this was a wildly generous term. It was so incredibly narrow, the company would need to follow it in single file, and even then it might be a problem.

To the left of the path was the side of the mountain, rough rock with very few handholds, and to the right was empty space and a long fall to nowhere.

When Aragorn's hand fell in the signal for 'Halt', Merrill could have kissed him. She flung her bag in the snow beside her, tore her bow from her back, and then, groaning, sank back against the side of the mountain, entirely unconcerned when she continued to sink for a little longer than she'd anticipated. She was simply relieved that they'd stopped before courting their death walking the mountain version of a tight rope.

Radhrion patted her on the head as he went to join Gandalf, Gimli, Legolas, and Aragorn, but Merrill didn't have it in her to do more than weakly flop her arm in his direction; they'd been marching, now, for at least eight hours, not including the time it had taken them to get to Hollin, and Merrill was ready to call it a day.

Her muscles ached, her eyes stung, and all she wanted to do was lay back against a hunk of ice to ease the pain in her back caused by Legolas's flying tackle. Though she couldn't twist enough to see it, Merrill was certain it had bruised.

Merrill heard snow crunching as someone approached, but kept her eyes tightly shut; maybe they'd make camp if they couldn't wake her!

Two small thumps, some rustling of snow, and then: "Good heavens! That was quite a walk. Was it necessary, do you think, to confound those wretched birds? Surely even they cannot find us in all this snow!"

 _Ah,_ Merrill thought, _Pippin._

"I would not be so certain, Pip. It feels as though we have escaped goblins only to be caught by wolves, as Bilbo used to say." The voice she now recognized as Merry's was barely loud enough to be heard over the wind, and Merrill empathized with the exhaustion she heard lurking beneath his words.

A pregnant pause, a shift in the snow, and then Pippin said tremulously, "Do you really believe so?"

"I do," Pippin replied, his voice rough from disuse.

The Hobbit to her right had come close enough that she could feel him shivering; that would be Pippin. Young, brave, foolish Pippin.

Something about that Hobbit really tugged on her heart. It probably had something to do with the image she had of him as a well-intentioned screw-up; Merrill often felt a little that way, herself.

Pippin squeaked in surprise as Merrill pulled him into her side, wrapping her cloak around him without opening her eyes. "If something is coming, we'd better be well-rested and well-fed before it does. So hush and take a nap while you can."

Merrill felt Pippin nod against her side before he burrowed even further beneath her cloak.

After several heartbeats, he sighed happily. "It is quite lovely and warm in here, Merry. And she even smells good! Like the soap from home with the little purple bits in it."

Merrill's cheeks heated a little at this; she'd been certain she smelled of over-ripened cheese considering how long it had been since she had last had the opportunity to bathe.

"Oh, Pippin. Do stop sniffing Merrill, won't you?"

"Am not!"

Merrill cleared her throat. "If you're cold, you can take the other side of my cloak, Merry."

"Thank you for the offer, but no. I am doing quite well with my own." Merry shifted a little further away from her side to prove his point, and Merrill heaved an internal sigh; of course he wouldn't want to be coddled. He was an adult by the customs of his people, and he might see her offer as demeaning. Merrill, herself, had often thought that Boromir's behavior towards the Hobbits was occasionally patronizing, and hoped she hadn't made the same mistake as he had done and correlated stature with maturity.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold trickled down her spine and her eyes snapped open.

"Merrill?" Pippin poked his head out from her cloak, his breath frosting the air. "Whatever is the matter?"

She shook her head, then froze; she had found the source of the wrongness. Boromir stood before Frodo a few yards off, further from the company then it was wise to be, and from his fist hung a silvery chain with something gold swinging from the end…

Suddenly, the wrongness intensified until she nearly doubled over, her vision blurring. Images inundated her; ** _her mother, smiling up at her from her computer desk where she spent Sunday mornings grading papers, the smell of wisteria wafting in on the warm, spring breeze, rustling against the ever-present purple Heliotropes on her desk; her husband's flower. Anne, singing off-key in the driver's seat, the sun burning her arm as she hangs it out the window, flashes of the ocean peeking through the trees, the taste of sunflower seeds salty in her mouth. Radhrion, standing at the front of a lecture hall, dark hair cropped short, wearing an old-fashioned tweed suit. In his hands, a moldering tome from which he reads. On the table before him, assorted bits of medieval history; an iron helmet, pieces of a rusted cuirass, broken dagger hilts, and more, and then—Legolas, silver hair pulled up in a sloppy bun, sat, cross-legged, on her shitty, black couch, a laptop balanced on his knees and a steaming mug of coffee at his lips. He grins when she approaches, moving everything to the side before drawing her into his arms, kissing her face, her nose, her cheeks until she cannot stop from laughing with the joy of it—_**

"Give the ring to Frodo."

Merrill groaned back to awareness, fingers curling against something warm and soft, and raised one, trembling hand to her lips; when she finally opened her eyes, she saw that her palm was smeared with blood.

"It makes no difference to me."

Merrill saw Boromir from the corner of her eye; he held the ring out to Frodo (for the ring it was), his expression almost mocking in its' indifference, but the skin around his eyes was taut, and his smile had too many teeth in it.

Frodo, pale face somehow even paler, tears frozen in glittering trails down his reddened cheeks, snatched the chain from Boromir's hand and took several steps back, clutching his prize close to his heart.

Aragorn stood stalwart at his back, eyes keen on Boromir, hands concealed beneath his cloak.

Boromir chuckled, a forced, strained sound, tousled Frodo's dark curls, then turned and trudged back up towards the others and out of her sight.

Frodo lifted the necklace over his head, and Merrill slumped with relief when it disappeared beneath his clothes, too shaken to worry that the arms that encircled her smelled of Juniper.

"Do not be frightened. Its evil affects even the greatest among us." His thumb swept across her chin. "Are you able to stand?"

She nodded stiffly and pulled back, not daring to make eye contact. Her reaction to the ring left a foul taste in her mouth and a weight in her stomach, and Legolas's concern, his kindness, only made her feel even more rotten.

Legolas kept a hold of her shoulders until she'd steadied, then his hands slid down her arms and fell to his sides, briefly clenching before going limp.

After a moment, he collected himself and pressed a flask into her hand. "Drink sparingly. I have heard tales of your reaction to Miruvor in the past."

The metal flask was cool against her skin. Mechanically, she pulled the cork and brought it to her lips, taking the smallest sip she could manage before nearly spitting it back out. It was espresso, but more bitter, mixed with baking chocolate and blood, and it coated her tongue as though she'd licked a handful of hair gel.

 _Isn't this supposed to taste good?_

Merrill forced herself to swallow, then handed it back. "Thanks."

His gaze fell to her lips. "The Miruvor should aid in your recovery, however I believe it would also be prudent to disinfect the wound."

"The wound?" Merrill felt along her face until she bumped into her lower lip and winced; she'd bitten clean through it. The tissue was inflamed, and dried blood cracked against her fingertips. "Oh. That." Her brain started to hum again, grinding back into something like awareness, and the realization of her frightful appearance, mixed with the acknowledgment of hers and Legolas's recent upset spurred her back into action. She tried for a smile, but, to her horror, her lip began to bleed afresh.

"Please," Legolas said, hastily reaching towards her face and frowning, "allow me to—"

"No!" Merrill slapped his hands away and then cringed; shock and hurt chased each other across his face. "I mean, no, thank you. I'm fine." The idea of him worrying about her after all that had happened (and all that would not happen, no matter his world's plans) hurt worse than the hole in her lip.

Wishing she could simply sink into the ground and vanish, she patted him awkwardly on the arm and fled to her healer's kit, cringing so hard she felt blood trickle down her neck.

"Are you hurt?" Pippin asked as she blew past him.

Merrill waved him off and dug through her kit, hoping to appear too busy to bother while she tried to piece together all that had happened.

 _Boromir… had picked up the ring, and, considering his predisposition towards its' evil, had had a hard time handing it back to Frodo. This scenario repeats itself later… and Boromir dies._ She took a deep breath. _How did I forget that he died? And it's soon-ish, right? Sometime after Gandalf dies? But…_ Merrill's hands stilled and she leaned back on her haunches. _Was everything I saw, everything I felt, the ring's influence? Is this what it does to Boromir?_

A slimy, oozing, slithering sensation bubbled and simmered in her stomach like a perverse sort of magma as she remembered the wanting. _Without that ring, she would never make it home. Those she loved would forget her, and those she had found in Middle Earth would forsake her. None of them would bother with her once the quest had ended and the danger had passed. Gandalf would leave Middle Earth, as would Galadriel and Elrond. Aragorn would become King, but he had never liked Merrill, anyway—who would? Gimli, like all his kind, would despise her for her lack of purpose and utility in this world, Radhrion would find his wife and sail away with the rest, and Legolas…_ Merrill bit at her lip and then cried out from the pain, startled to discover tears mixed in with the blood on her face.

 _How long have I been kneeling here?_ She wondered, swiping at her cheeks angrily. _How did that ring get hold of me again?_

Aragorn's voice boomed across the snowy blasts of wind. "Come! Gather your things. We must go further, yet, before we may rest."

With little thought, Merrill gouged out a hunk of half-frozen salve from one of her tins and held it in her palms until it became malleable enough to smear across her lips. It stung like rubbing alcohol, and she inhaled sharply, tears pricking her eyes until the pain faded.

The Hobbits had already lined up, so she stowed her salve and shouldered her pack, coming to a stop behind them. No conversation floated back to her on the wind, and she was grateful they weren't in the mood for talking; her thoughts were too twisted up with the ring's influence, the memories of home, and the creeping fear that those she loved, in both worlds, would abandon her.

The briefest whisper of warmth ghosted across the top of her hand, and Merrill looked down to see slender fingers tracing patterns along the inside of her wrist.

"Avo dhavo am môr," Legolas murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "Stay close." (1)

Merrill nodded mutely, her throat dry, still staring at her wrist, and felt, rather than saw, him leave.

Moments later, and they were on the move again, treading along the narrow path one after the other with Gandalf at the fore.

Shuffling along behind the Hobbits kept Merrill plenty busy, as they frequently stumbled and fell, and she, Radhrion, and Gimli all made it their business to keep them going, encouraging and physically picking them up by turns.

The Hobbits all shivered uncontrollably, their small bodies sunk up to the chest in snow, and Frodo, especially, seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty moving forward.

The memory of the ring's influence made her shudder; she had just _seen_ the ring and it had left her in quite a state. Poor Frodo was _wearing_ the damned thing on a chain next to his heart.

With every step, Frodo sagged further and further until he was almost bent at the waist. It didn't escape Merrill's notice that both of his hands clutched at the neck of his tunic, nor did the empty expression in his eyes. Frodo had checked out, a flashing, red vacancy sign where his spirit should have been, and Merrill averted her eyes; she couldn't bear to watch him struggle, but she knew there was nothing she could do to help short of taking the ring, herself.

That thought startled her, and she stomped her foot down a little harder than necessary and gritted her teeth to shake free of its temptation. _Not today, Middle Earth Satan. Not today._

Gandalf had taken the lead, Aragorn by his side, and both moved steadily through the snow, carving out a path that the others followed, all except for Legolas and Radhrion, who walked along what snow was left without sinking. The lucky bastards didn't even leave bootprints.

Other than having to slog through the white mess, the snow hardly bothered her, at all. She was a little cold, to be sure, but not enough to pull her cloak more tightly around her. The wind annoyed her only in that it dried out her eyes, but otherwise, she was perfectly comfortable.

Sam halted suddenly, and Merrill bumped up against his back, grabbing at his shoulders to steady him.

"What is it?"

Sam shook his dirty-blond head. "I don't rightly know. Gandalf stopped."

And sure enough, Gandalf had stopped. His eyes were shut, and his lips moved like the wings of a hummingbird.

Then an ominous grumble came from the ground beneath their feet, and the air went still.

"Mithrandir?" Legolas asked as he returned to Gandalf's side, but if the wizard heard, he made no indication.

Gimli put his hands, palm down, on the side of the mountain, eyes wary, and said nervously, "Barazinbar awakes. It is said she has no love for Dwarves or Elves, and any who find themselves traversing her are never seen again."

Merrill fought her way to his side, placing her hands beside his own; a strange thrum pulsed through the rock, and Merrill yanked her hands back, rubbing her palms thoughtfully. "Are you saying the mountain hates us?"

"Aye, lassie. That she does."

Another great rumble nearly knocked Merrill onto her ass, and the others staggered, too. That feeling of foreboding from Hollin had returned.

"Gandalf! We need to get off the mountain! The Hobbits will freeze, otherwise!"

Gandalf turned and examined the Hobbits at Boromir's insistence, but ultimately shook his head. "We forge on."

At his words, the mountain shook again, this time much harder, and the rumble sounded suspiciously like a growl. All of the hair on Merrill's body stood on end just before a river of snow roared down the mountainside, burying them all before they could so much as cry out.

Merrill struggled against its weight, panic slithering up and around her throat; she couldn't breathe. Suddenly, she remembered the weight of the Orc on her back, his sour breath against her cheek, the sharp pricking of his sword against her spine, cruel hands digging into her windpipe, crushing the air from her lungs…

A hand shot through the ice and she snatched at it, allowing herself to be pulled out and into someone's arms. She buried her face into the broad chest before her, teeth chattering so hard that her lip broke open, bleeding sluggishly through the salve.

"We must turn back!" Boromir bellowed over the storm.

"We have no other choice!" Radhrion shouted in reply from somewhere to her left. "All of the roads are being watched; Saruman's reach is extensive—we would be captured at once!"

"If we cannot go over the mountain, let us go under it." Gimli's deep voice cut through the howling blizzard effortlessly, booming unpleasantly against her sensitive ears and conjuring images of deep, dark places in the earth filled with smoke, and ash, and death. "Let us go through the mines of Moria, Gandalf."

Merrill's eyes flew open, her stomach knotting at the suggestion. This was a part of the movie she remembered quite well. This is where they lost Gandalf.

Sensing her unease, Legolas stroked her hair, tucking her head more securely against his neck. His throat was unbelievably warm against her cheek, even his chest radiated heat, and she clung a little more tightly to him, doing her best not to bleed on his tunic.

"Let the Ringbearer decide," Gandalf said grimly, frost obscuring much of his expression.

Merrill pulled out of Legolas' embrace reluctantly, turning to watch Frodo.

The small Hobbit was practically blue from the cold, his ruddy cheeks bright with the beginnings of frostbite, and he shivered uncontrollably from his place amidst his brethren, all of whom were sandwiched together for warmth.

Coming to some sort of decision, Frodo's chin firmed and his small shoulders straightened. "We will take the mines."

Merrill closed her eyes against his pronouncement, not wanting to see its effects on the wizard, but she heard his reply well enough, and it nearly crushed her.

"So be it."

Those words put her in mind of words used to end the 'spells' of her world: So mote it be. Both phrases rang with finality and possessed connotations of sacrifice. But there was something else in his tone that made her heart sink into her stomach; beneath his words was a hollowness, a weighted acceptance, and a bolt of understanding lit her mental landscape like lightning: Gandalf knew that he was going to die.

* * *

 **\\-\\-|-/-/**

By the time they found a small cave in which to rest, half the night had already gone and most of the company were dead on their feet.

They set about their nightly chores automatically, though those that might be done away with, or curtailed, were. Their focus was on the lowest tier of survival: shelter, warmth, and sustenance.

When Sam had knelt, his heavy pack thudding beside him, and reached for his kindling box, Radhrion tugged it gently from his hands and motioned for him to rest, speedily building a small fire around which the Hobbits huddled.

Merrill, herself, passed most of the night tending to the Fellowship as best she could, advising them to remove their wet socks and boots to dry them by the fire and providing them with the clean rags she kept in her healer's kit to dry their toes, all while fervently praying she would have time to boil them before they were needed for bandages.

Thoughts of Moria loomed darker and darker in her mind. Fuzzy memories of an endless, Dwarven abyss filled with monstrous goblins and a gigantic, flaming, rock demon assaulted her each time she closed her eyes, so she'd taken to counting and re-counting the daggers each member of the Fellowship carried and, when that failed, braided (and re-braided) her long, black hair until her attentions caused it to grow to twice its normal size—some things, at least, never changed.

The Hobbits, a usually boisterous lot, were mostly silent. The long trek up the mountain and the cold, it seemed, had done what the rest of the journey could not. Even Pippin, the Hobbit poster child for ADHD, ate his meal of hard tack and dried apples before curling up in his cloak without a word to anyone, exhaustion robbing him of his spirit.

Merrill dug her spare cloak out from her pack and stretched it across the pile of sleeping Hobbits, worried for Frodo and Pippin, especially. Sam and Merry were made of stronger stuff, and took the frigid climate and fruitless hike in stride, but Frodo was weighed down with his burden, and Pippin was still a child, used to the considerable comforts of his home.

Merrill snuggled up against Radhrion, who sat with his back to the cave wall, and hid her nose in his cloak. Elf-like or not, the cold was starting to get to her; she'd lost most of the feeling in her face some time ago, and her hair was brittle with ice.

Radhrion wrapped her in his own cloak and pulled her snug against his side, lifting her hood over her ears and holding it there with his hands, his warm palms acting as ear muffs.

In the furthest reaches of the icy cave, Boromir sat alone, his cloak pulled tightly against himself in lieu of a blanket, his eyes resolutely shut. But Merrill knew he did not sleep. He, like Frodo, hadn't spoken at all since the incident with the ring, and had removed himself from the company as soon as he was able to do so without burdening the others, performing his nightly chores with a rapidity that Merrill knew well. It said, "I am too busy to be bothered," and it was one of Merrill's standbys for avoiding uncomfortable situations.

It was good, as far as tactics of avoidance went, but it had one serious flaw: eventually, there were no more tasks to complete, and the anticipation of this left you on edge.

Boromir flinched at the slightest noise, his attention so focused on not being noticed or spoken to that his startle response reacted to every creak in the ice or hiss of the wind.

Merrill considered offering him one of the many blankets Radhrion had packed, but ultimately decided against it; he'd just bite her head off for her pains, and she had her own problems to worry about. Still, seeing him so far away from the fire's light and warmth made something in her twinge in sympathy; he was self-isolating, and that never boded well.

At the cave's mouth, Legolas stood guard, as silent and still as a statue, the fluttering of his silver hair the only indication of life.

Merrill couldn't help herself. Even in this situation, with the ring circling her psyche like a wolf at the edge of a fire, and the fear of Moria turning her blood to ice, she couldn't help but admire the beauty of his silhouette as it was outlined by the softly falling snow.

 _What happens to him after I leave? He stays with the Fellowship, fights a few battles, and then what? The good guys win, Aragorn becomes king, a bunch of the Elves sail West… but what about Legolas?_ Merrill sat bolt upright. _Was there any way that Galadriel could…?_

 _No_ , Merrill slammed the door on that particular thought and rubbed her eyes, but a fatalistic sort of resignation had begun to insinuate itself within her heart. _Why am I like this?_

Deciding that tomorrow was just as good a time as any to continue this foolish line of thought, Merrill slumped back down beside Radhrion and waited for sleep to take her.

Radhrion's chest rose… and fell. Rose… and fell; a gentle whoosh of warm breath against the top of her head that made her smile. He had a way of easing her anxiety, even asleep, and she allowed herself to relax against him, head drooping against his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of pine that clung to his clothing.

* * *

 **\\-\\-|-/-/**

 _She was looking down on an empty plain, behind which a vast forest stretched, and before which a great stone bridge traversed a river leading to a cave mouth so wide, at least forty cars could enter side by side, and so tall that a four story building could very easily pass through it, with room to spare._

 _The bridge put her in mind of those she'd seen in Rivendell, the one from which Elrond enjoyed watching the sun set, particularly. Its construction was clearly Elven in nature; it was too fair to be the work of any other hand, but Merrill didn't recognize the area. It was shadier than Rivendell, and the forests seemed to consist entirely of beeches, their silvery bark, and distinctive pale green leaves a dead give-away._

 _Just as Merrill was beginning to get bored, something exited the woods, dashing about wildly and seizing, white froth pooling from its jaws…_

 **No.** _Merrill shook her head._ **There's no way that's what I think it is.**

 _The creature chose that moment to stop, its spine snapping straight before throwing its massive, shaggy head back and howling a howl that hurt Merrill's teeth and shook the nearby trees with its strength._

 _From snout to tail, the creature was at least seven feet long, and somewhere around nine feet tall when standing on its back legs… which it continued to do. It did not run on all fours, choosing, instead, to run as though it were… human._

 **It's a werewolf. A freaking werewolf. What in the actual hell?!** _Merrill tried to move from her position in the sky to get a better look, but found she could not._

 _A dark-haired man and a large, grey hound issued forth from the cave, running across the bridge towards the werewolf, who fell to all fours and exploded towards them, its back claws throwing up clumps of earth._

 _The man let loose a battle cry, the steel of his sword flashing in the sunlight as it came down upon the beast while the hound at his side snapped and harried the werewolf's flanks and ankles._

 _Merrill watched in awe as the two worked together; whenever the werewolf focused over long on either, the other would distract. The hound, in particular, did his best to keep his master from being mauled, drawing blood on more than one occasion even as he was injured, himself, but it could only work for so long. Even as they fought, the hound and man began to lose speed and began to make mistakes the werewolf was only too happy to exploit._

 _And, sure enough, with one misstep, the beast clamped down on the hounds' side, blood gushing from its jaws as the hound shrieked and whimpered._

 _The man lunged forward, hacking desperately at the beast's jaws, but left his flank unguarded. The werewolf flung the hound away and struck, fangs sinking deep into the man's chest, blood spurting and welling around it's fangs before spilling across the ground._

 _Merrill watched, horrified, as the knowledge of his death crossed his face, but then something changed. With a wet sounding yell, blood dribbling from his lips, the man lifted his sword and slashed with what strength remained to him, finally striking true._

 _The beast howled, the man falling from his jaws to the field below, and stumbled back, reddish-black intestines spilling from its gut before it, too, succumbed, crumpling to the earth, very much dead._

 _"_ _NO!"_

 _Merrill cringed; the voice was loud enough to burst eardrums, and its tone so sorrowful that she felt tears spring to her eyes._

 _A tall, Elven woman, her raven hair streaming behind her as she ran, crossed the bridge in seconds, falling to her knees beside the dying man, sobs already cropping up in her throat._

 _"_ _Beren, please—Please, no. Do not leave me. You cannot leave me!" The Elf applied pressure, pale hands covered in dark, red blood, her blue gown turning black from where she knelt in the grass._

 _Merrill watched as he took the hand she held against his wound and brought it to his lips, but the Elf's hair obscured much of his face, so she had to infer the kiss he placed against her palm. "I know, my love." He tucked her hair behind her ear and said, with some effort, "I am sorry."_

 _The Elf shook her head hard from side to side and didn't stop, her hands clutching him to her. "You fool," she admonished, her voice thick with tears as she rocked him against her. "You absolute fool."_

 _Beren pushed a bloody, glowing stone into her hand, hacking wetly, before releasing a rattling breath that froze Merrill's blood. "Gi melin," he sighed against her hair, and was still._

 _The Elf who could only be Luthien collapsed across his chest, shoulders shaking as she finally cried in earnest, sobs tearing their way from her throat in an entirely unnatural way._

 _Merrill cried with her, Luthien's sorrow too much to bear. And as she cried, the sky darkened, the wind kicked up, shrieking with its speed, lightning ripped across the sky, gouging at the ground until whole rocks and bits of dirt flew into the air, the animals of the forest keened, and even the trees groaned and creaked mournfully, shaking until their leaves filled the air._

 _Luthien's hair, blacker than night, faded, as did the rest of her body, until she was merely a shimmering reflection of what she'd been._

 _"_ _Gi melin, gi melin, gi melin," she whispered hoarsely against his throat, and then she closed her eyes and Merrill knew that she was dead._

"Little bird? Come now, no tears."

Merrill woke to Radhrion smoothing the tears from her cheeks, his brow wrinkled, and a deep frown etched around his lips.

She launched herself at him, hands scrabbling until she gripped him tight enough to bruise, her sobs deadened by the soft wool of his tunic.

Radhrion drew his arms tight around her, his body rocking as he shushed her rhythmically.

Merrill hardly remembered her dream, but the sorrow that she was left with consumed every other emotion except her deeply ingrained fear of loss, which had been recently triggered by the ring, and so stung even more sharply, now.

"There, there, my dear. There, there." He stroked her back soothingly, his voice warm with the remnants of sleep. "You are safe, little bird. I promise you, you are safe."

After she'd managed to calm down a bit, Radhrion asked quietly, "Night terrors?"

Merrill nodded, his tunic wet beneath her cheek, and croaked, "I dreamt of Beren's death."

Radhrion pulled away until he could see her face properly. "I beg your pardon?"

Merrill wiped her nose on her sleeve, and replied dully, "I watched Beren die. A werewolf killed him. And I saw Luthien…" Merrill trailed off, rubbing idly at the embroidery she'd ruined with her tears and snot.

Radhrion's hand stilled against her hair. "You saw Luthien… and?"

"She almost tore the world apart with her sorrow… and then she just…" Merrill shook her head, still trying to wrap her mind around what she'd seen. "She just… faded away. All the color, all the life, just… left her." Merrill hugged him a little closer, and he returned to stroking her hair.

Merrill listened to the steady beat of his heart, allowing herself to relax even further against him, until he murmured, "… It was just a dream, little bird. Nothing to worry about." He pulled his blanket over them both, tucking it snug against her body. "The tumult of the day was bound to upset you, as was the relentless cold coming off this blasted pile of rock. Do not pay it any mind and rest. I will watch over your sleep, and wake you if the terrors return."

Merrill shook her head, her eyelids already drooping. "I don't think sleep is in the cards for me, Ronners." She yawned hugely, missing Radhrion's soft, indulgent smile, and the faintest crinkling around his eyes.

"Just as you say, little bird," he whispered, resting his chin atop her head even as her eyes fell shut. "Just as you say."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **(1) Do not yield to darkness.**

 **Gi melin = I love you (Informal/familiar)**

 **Heliotrope is a small, four petaled purple flower that follows the sun. It means longing. Wisteria means devotion. Both were planted by Merrill's father.**

 **THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the comments:**

 **Laurel1990, Guest, D'elfe, Aralinn, ColdOnePaul, Danire, SarahELupin, xcislyfe22, peygoodwin, Brea2020, MariaJane716, MariaJulietBituin, JcRxo, masoxrista, & RozenMaiden14!**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Things are starting to happen, bros. Lots and lots of things. I'm working on the next few chapters, but you'll be glad to know I have up to Boromir's death outlined, and a vague idea of what's going to happen up to the feast after Helm's deep, and I'm feeling really good about the details.**

 **Oh, and it seems like most of you prefer chapters more frequently, at any size, so that's what we're sticking to, though, from here on out, there is so much happening in each chapter it's likely they'll be a little longer than my previous ones, anyway. :)**

 **We're finally in Moria next chapter (well, outside of it, anyway; haven't finished writing that bit up, yet. So much to touch on!)!**

 **Best wishes to you all ~**


	36. Chapter 36

**\ \ \ | / / /**

* * *

The morning came prompt to its time, and far too soon for the liking of many of the Fellowship, whose brief rest did nothing towards restoring either their energy or their spirit.

The cold was so oppressive, their quest suddenly so real, that the two combined cast a pall over their party, one which was not relieved until they were well on their way, the mountain looming behind them like a bad dream.

Merrill, herself, was just relieved not to be cold any more. The plains, while chill, were a sauna compared to the sentient, racist mountain she'd just hiked down, and their scenery was much more pleasing to the eye. After staring so long at nothing but blinding white and murky gray, the burnt gold of the plains, dotted with the occasional reddish shrub, deep green pines, black rocks, and blue sky was a revelation; it allowed her to shake off the sorrow of the previous night's dream, and her worrying reaction to the ring, if only for a moment. But a moment was all she needed; a moment was a space in which she could breathe, and that was everything.

Radhrion had forsaken the others and chosen to walk beside her, often pointing out topological and geological oddities to draw her out, and she loved him even more for it.

Frodo had thawed, somewhat, and rejoined the conversations of his brethren, once more, though without the enthusiasm of Pippin, the sincerity of Sam, or the awareness of Merry. For the most part, he was still withdrawn, trapped in the ring's clutches, Merrill imagined, and her heart ached for him.

Legolas resumed his scouting duties, but Merrill felt his gaze on her face each time he returned; this attention only made her feel worse. She didn't deserve him, she really didn't. She was leaving regardless of their supposed destiny, she pushed him away at every turn, and still he was concerned for her.

Radhrion pointed out a rather rude looking rock formation, drawing a laugh from her, and she mentally girded herself, pushing her self-pity away. _There's too much happening, here; I don't have the time to be mooning over Legolas, or agonizing over a decision I've already made. I'm going home, and that is that._

Merrill uncorked her water-skin, and took a long draught, focusing solely on the cool slide of the water down her raw throat; she hadn't known how much she'd cried until she woke to suspiciously considerate behavior from the majority of the party.

Pippin had made her a pot of Wakeflower tea, whose familiar scent nearly sent her into yet another round of hysterics, and Sam had sidled up beside her, attempting to look nonchalant as he passed a secret cookie into her hand, but he dropped it and was, consequently, swarmed by both Merry and Pippin, who were desperate for sweets and willing to do anything short of murder to attain them. Gimli had patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and gruffly offered his prized Dwarven whiskey, and Legolas had refilled her water skin and taken her mug when she'd finished her tea for washing without a word. Even Aragorn, cautious, watchful Aragorn, had invited her to walk beside him under the pretense of discussing plant lore, which Merrill knew was pretense because his knowledge on the subject far exceeded her own.

The kindness of her companions warmed her heart, and she smiled in remembrance, hazel eyes softening as she absent-mindedly wiped at her lip. A sharp, bright frisson of pain screeched along her nerves as she upset her swollen lip for the fiftieth time that day, and she mentally cursed, eyes watering.

Merrill waited for the pain to dull and then corked her water-skin, determining even as she slipped it back into her pack, to rid herself of her injury the moment they took a break.

The thought of using her spirit healing scared her, a little, but not enough to dissuade her from trying. After all, now that she KNEW what she could do, she could probably heal her lip up with no one the wiser.

Luckily for her, they stopped for a break much sooner than she'd expected, largely owing to Frodo's rapidly deteriorating condition. Dark circles camped out beneath his eyes, and his skin was waxy, yellow in certain lights, and drawn in a way that made Merrill want to pump him full of multi-vitamins and chocolate cake.

While the others attended to their own concerns, Merrill excused herself to use the necessary and entered the dark forest at their flank. The trees resembled Frodo in more ways than one; they were drawn, clinging to life with a hope and a prayer, and shrouded in near constant darkness, though still striving, twisting and twining, up towards the light.

She found a likely looking spot just far enough from the others, did her business, then settled in to do what she'd really intended: heal her lip.

Merrill sank into a tailor's seat and dropped into meditation, Glorfindel's voice echoing in her mind: _Stop fidgeting and focus._

Her spine straightened automatically at that voice, and her breathing fell into its customary pattern, mimicking the roar of the ocean, the cadence of the waves against the shore, until Merrill had relaxed sufficiently.

She eyed the clutter of her mental space guiltily; she hadn't meditated since her incident with Glorfindel, and it showed. The room she pictured in place of her mind was full to bursting with stacks of paper, leaning precariously out of boxes, and being blown about by a wayward fan intent on total destruction. It didn't escape her notice that her mental space was modeled after a storage unit; she was sure Glorfindel's was some famous Elven library with a help desk and a docent at the door.

A sigh, and then: _It is my fault, entirely, for expecting you to maintain your training. Just look at the state of your mind! How do you expect to find anything in this mess?_

Merrill realized she was talking to herself, but Glorfindel's voice just had that certain tone that never failed to goad her. _Excuse me, your highness, but I've been a little busy, you know, trying NOT to die, and all?_

Nothing but a disapproving silence met her mental ears, and she groaned and set about clearing up, pulling boxes towards her and making piles of like-minded thoughts/memories, etc. until the space was somewhat functional.

Merrill stood up and propped her hands on her hips, looking about her mental space with a proprietary sort of pride: _Everything the light touches is mine!_

 _Now it's time to give my healing a shot._ Merrill strode to the other end of the room and opened a box labeled: _Danger—Do Not Open._ And beneath that in smaller letters: _No, seriously, Merrill—Let us all remember Pandora._

Ignoring the warning, she peeled the flaps back and reached down into the box, fingers stretching until they bumped into something that radiated heat like an open flame. Merrill flinched back automatically, but, shoulders squaring, she thrust her hand forward.

Pain seared through her, heat blazing up her arm and pulling her, inexorably, into its center. Merrill yanked with everything in her, but her power wouldn't budge. It crawled up her soul like a rock-climber, wedging its power into crevices before boosting itself further up, slowly, but surely, claiming control.

 _Pathetic,_ Glorfindel's voice cut through the pain like a guillotine, briefly separating her from the power sinking into her flesh. _Truly. If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times, you must FOCUS! Grip your power before attempting to use it. Now think: where did you leave your anchor?_

And that was it; she'd left it in the safest hands she knew. Radhrion's image burst into her mind; he grinned and ruffled her hair, throwing his head back and laughing at something she said; he offered her a pie fresh from the kitchens, repositioned her hands on her glaive, sat beside her in complete silence, just gazing up at the stars companionably, and then his voice, gruffly affectionate: _Little bird._

Merrill's heart filled, her sense of self returned, and she gripped her power between her fists and squeezed. _Back in the box with you!_ She thrust the light back into the box, forcing every straggling bit back each time it attempted to escape. _I will outlast you, no matter how long this takes,_ she threatened, and her power, grumbling, slunk into its cage, finally quiet, but by no means beaten.

 _Merrill!_ A flash of eyes bluer than the night sky, an overwhelming sense of relief, and then the sensation of insects crawling across her skin, and a low voice, sinister and well pleased: _Now, what have we here?_

Merrill gasped and woke, goosebumps flaring down her arms and back, but she didn't have any time to contemplate her struggle, for as soon as she'd stood, a chorus of howls erupted from the trees behind her, and the bushes rustled in warning.

She spun, scanning the wood, and spied several sets of glowing, yellow eyes in the underbrush.

Merrill reached cautiously for her back, but her hand met empty air; she'd left her pack, and her bow, at camp.

Her options decreasing by the second, Merrill did the only thing she could do, she made herself appear bigger by raising her arms over her head and shouted incomprehensibly.

"Merrill?!" She heard Radhrion call, but it was too late; the wolves emerged from the bushes and began to circle her, their paws padding softly against the earth, saliva hanging in ropes down just-parted jaws.

Merrill turned slowly, her focus solely absorbed by the biggest, meanest looking wolf in the pack. Its eyes were the yellow of dirty cooking oil, and its gray fur was rough and patchy. Her eyes caught and held on one, jagged fang, broken off in a previous altercation, and then a growl like gravel being ground against asphalt broke free of its mouth and Merrill glanced back up; something white flashed briefly in the yellow of its eyes, and an utterly human expression crossed its features just as it lunged.

Heavy paws smacked into her chest, throwing her to the ground. Merrill frantically shoved at the snapping jaws near her face, her fingers slipping in the monster's saliva, and then a frisson of pain lanced through her leg. She screamed and kicked with all her might, her assailant yelping and moving off of her ankle.

Then shouts and calls broke through the clearing, and an arrow bloomed like a thistle from the wolf's mouth; Merrill sucked in a breath and went cross-eyed looking at its sharp point, which was just inches away from giving her a third nostril.

The wolf atop her went slack, and Merrill rolled it off her and scooted away, snatching desperately at a nearby rock and setting her back to a tree, her eyes roaming the clearing.

Radhrion and Aragorn were busy a few feet from her, their swords swinging almost in unison as they forced the beasts onto the defensive, Radhrion's face hard and closed, his lips thin with concentration.

Aragorn shouted, his thick, black brows drawn sharp and low over his steely eyes, his lips bared around his white teeth in a grimace that sent shivers down Merrill's spine.

Merrill startled, her muscles tensing as Legolas appeared from nowhere, landing solidly before her, a long dagger held at the ready in each hand.

His silvery blonde hair had been knotted up behind his head in what might pass for a sloppy bun, stray strands curling around the red fletching of his arrows.

The pattern of his blades as they whistled through the air, dispatching wolves with gut-twisting efficiency, and the economical nature of his movements, his feet always returning to their original position, left her speechless; he moved like someone who had so deeply integrated the laws of physics and the philosophies of spirit into his being that he no longer paid them any mind. Legolas didn't just _move_ ; he _was_ movement.

Feeling a little dizzy, Merrill shifted just as Gimli roared past, a copper tornado with an axe which swung merrily, sinking into the spine of one wolf before crushing the skull of another. The mad Dwarf was almost giggling with glee, pleased beyond reason to be standing alongside Radhrion.

"That makes five dead by my axe!" Gimli yelled cheerfully, blood splattering his face as he yanked his axe out of a ribcage with a crunching noise that brought bile to Merrill's throat. "How many kills have ye, Radhrion?"

Radhrion flipped over two wolves, dragging his daggers down their spines as he continued to fall. When he landed, he spun too fast to track, the wolves falling dead at his feet.

He swiped at his lip and called back, "I do not count, Gimli, son of Gloin. There is no glory in a battle such as this."

Gimli grunted, his face falling for the briefest of moments, before a clear, silvery voice shouted, "Sixteen at last count, Dwarf."

Both Gimli and herself blinked up at Legolas until he called out, "Seventeen!" At which point Gimli bellowed his frustration and physically hurled himself into a group of wolves Aragorn had strategically maneuvered between himself and a thick clump of gorse and trees, his body sinking beneath a mass of roiling black and gray fur.

"Gimli! You idiot!" Merrill tried to stand, but Legolas put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head, his eyes gleaming with something very like mischief.

"Legolas, what did you—"

But he held a finger to her lips and she swallowed hard; his gaze didn't waver from her face. "Look," he ordered.

Merrill groused, but did as instructed, batting his finger away and focusing on the fight.

Distressed shrieks and yelps emerged from the middle of the mass, wolves falling to their knees like puppets whose strings had just been cut.

The pattern expanded ever outward, in a steady circle, until even Aragorn had stopped fighting to observe, leaning heavily on the pommel of his sword while he caught his breath.

Within the span of a few minutes, the wolves all lay dead, and Merrill watched, equal parts fear, shock, and revulsion, as Gimli's copper head popped up from the bloody pile like a gory Meerkat.

His brassy-brown eyes were over bright beneath his helm as he panted, and he grinned maniacally, blood dripping down his large, crooked nose and into his coppery beard.

Gimli spat out what looked like a hunk of bloody fur and then met Legolas's eyes squarely. "Nineteen."

Legolas's mouth twitched. "You have something in your teeth."

While Gimli huffed and began to pick at his teeth, Legolas and the others all turned their attention on Merrill, who suddenly felt very small.

"So… thanks, you know, for that," she squeaked, gesturing at the mangled bodies surrounding her.

Radhrion's eyes narrowed, as though he sensed that she'd broken the rules, and Aragorn nodded once at her before wiping his sword clean. "Come. We musn't leave the others for over long."

Legolas offered her his arm just as Radhrion did, and Merrill refused both, much to their chagrin, limping a little as they followed Aragorn, Gimli almost skipping behind them.

When they cleared the trees, Boromir and Gandalf met them, the Hobbits grouped together between them, faces pinched and pale, their hands clutching their daggers tightly, excepting Sam, who held his prized iron skillet at the ready, warm brown eyes uncharacteristically hard.

At Gandalf's raised brow, Radhrion spat, "Saruman's wolves. We've dealt with them, but it might be wise to bury the bodies. We do not wish to draw any further attention."

Gandalf nodded, then turned his sharp eyes on her. "I quite agree. We must avoid drawing unwanted attention at all costs, no matter the temporary inconvenience to ourselves."

Merrill winced and hung her head, thoroughly chastised. Though it hadn't been her intention, and she hadn't actually believed her power could be tracked, she had still gone against the express orders of those much wiser in these matters than herself, and doing so had endangered the others, which, in her books, was unforgivable.

When the others retrieved their shovels, Merrill jumped to her feet and joined them, intent on assuaging her guilt through digging.

It was a messy business; many of the wolves had suffered at the hands of an over-excited Gimli, and, in consequence, were missing limbs and heads, alike.

Merrill wished to leave those particular corpses to the others, but her guilt forced her hand; she used her small shovel to nudge the hacked off bits into the mass grave, swallowing back bile more than once, and then shrieked and launched herself into the bushes when a severed forepaw fell from a tree above her and smacked her square in the face.

Gimli guffawed openly at her reaction, one, short finger pointing towards where she struggled to break free of the brambles, Aragorn chuckled quietly, offering her his hand, and Boromir turned away, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Merrill accepted Aragorn's hand, relieved Legolas had not been present to witness that graceful moment, and then dumped the contents of her water-skin over her head, scrubbing at her face with the other hand and shuddering at the smell.

When they'd finally finished, Merrill was covered in dirt, dust, and other things best left to the imagination, and in no mood to do anything but bathe.

Fortunately, even Aragorn saw the necessity of a bath, especially for Gimli, whose beard and armor were so thoroughly caked in blood and gore that bits of it were beginning to flake off. So, when the wolves' corpses were finally covered over with dirt, they all split up for a hasty wash, the men heading downstream while Merrill remained near camp.

Before she had so much as taken a step, however, Aragorn stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "If you need us, yell as you did before, and we will come. But do not tarry; we must be on our way in a quarter of an hour."

"Aye, aye, Captain," she said tiredly, and he spared her a glance, quietly concerned by her lack of enthusiasm.

Merrill could only imagine what it was he saw. She knew she was likely bruised from the ache in her back and chest, and the tenderness in her ankle, along with the stickiness of her lower leg, told her she had probably bled all over her breeches.

Hesitantly, he reached out and plucked a bit of branch from the remains of her braid and held it up for her to see before tossing it to the forest floor and smiling. "You're a mess, Merrill."

 _He called me Merrill! And it didn't sound perfunctory—it sounded like a name!_

Merrill didn't have to summon a smile of her own; it had already climbed up her cheeks, very seriously threatening to become a full-blown grin. "Yeah, well, you aren't going to win any beauty contests right now, either, Aragorn." She pointed at his own hair, which was hanging in lank waves around his face, and then at his pants, which were soaked with blood up to the knee.

Surprise, wariness, then something grudgingly warm filled his eyes before he replied in quiet frustration, "I will never fully understand you."

Merrill felt the strangest shiver dance across her skin, and she said, somewhat pensively, "You know what? I have the strangest feeling you're wrong."

He considered this, one brow lifted at the certainty he heard beneath her words, and then nodded, melting into the trees like mist in search of his own bath.

Merrill, still smiling to herself, fished a bar of pale lavender soap out of her bag, a rag from her healer's kit, and the only clean clothes she had left before heading off to bathe, determined to do some laundry while she had the chance.

 _Clean socks and underthings_ , she thought, almost groaning with pleasure. _What luxury!_

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Hey, guys. Sorry for the protracted wait, and thanks for sticking around. There was a death in my family in July, and I haven't had the time, nor have I been in the mood, to write since then.**

 **There's still a lot of stuff to do/deal with on my end, so until I can get a better grip on it all, I probably won't be able to resume my two week upload schedule. I hope you understand.**

 **Thanks for your patience and best wishes ~**

 **Catali7**


	37. Chapter 37

**\ \ -|- / /**

They hiked for several hours more before settling for the night amidst a rocky outcrop.

The company spoke quietly amongst themselves, eating a brief meal before setting the watch and stumbling into their bedrolls, but sleep eluded Merrill.

Radhrion rested beside her, his eyes closed and his breathing steady and slow, and she could just make out the small bundles behind him, each of which indicated a sleeping Hobbit.

Merrill flipped over, squirming until she'd found a semi-comfortable position against the hard-packed earth, and allowed her gaze to drift.

Gandalf and Aragorn had taken their watch together, and Merrill considered the pair. Gandalf was seated upon the earth as though reclining upon the finest of sofas, his gray cloak draping in soft folds around him, his customary pipe in his hands, and Aragorn stood, feet shoulders width apart, hands clasped behind his back, observing the sparse wood below.

The gray wizard's lips moved rapidly, though no sound reached her, and Aragorn's shoulders tensed, his hands loosening their hold on one another to fall to his sides, forgotten in his irritation as he listened. There were several instances where Aragorn tried to interject, confusion and annoyance written in his harshly slanted brows, jerky gestures, and deep frown, but Gandalf merely raised his hand and waited the ranger out before resuming.

Whatever the wizard said shook the Ranger's habitual calm, and Merrill eyed the pair as Aragorn turned away from his post, jabbing one, scarred finger back towards the camp, his frustration clear, but Gandalf shook his head in that enigmatic way that meant he would say no more and rested his hand upon the younger man's shoulder.

Though she had no way of knowing the subject, Merrill recognized compromise when she saw it; both parties itched with dissatisfaction at their agreement as they were forced to accept terms that were mostly unacceptable and, if the situation had been any different, would never have even been considered.

Merrill rolled over in her bedroll, fingers twisting the eagle shorn curl over and over while she thought.

 _What can Gandalf be telling him? He won't tell him about his suspicions about the Balrog or his death… that wizard is too secretive for that. What would I do if I had the feeling I was about to die?_ Merrill's eyes shot to the tree above the camp where she could just make out a flash of silvery hair, and then down to her side where Radhrion dozed. _I would make sure those I loved would be safe after I had gone… and I'd tell them what they meant to me._ The very thought, the mere consideration of her mortality and its effects on those she cared for, though unpalatable in itself, was suddenly absurdly offensive, and Merrill grumbled and amended: _Well, perhaps that's not the right question. I'm no wizard. What would_ _ **he**_ _do knowing that he is going to die, and knowing, too, that he would be leaving those who depend on him to continue in the fight against evil? Advice_ , Merrill decided. _He would give them advice, as much as he could without breaking whatever promises he'd made that swore him to such strict secrecy, and hope that it would be enough to make up for his absence._

Merrill returned her attention to the pair at the edge of camp; Gandalf still spoke, though his words came more slowly, more cautiously, than they had before, and Aragorn had resumed his guard position, listening dutifully to all the other said, though his shoulders were taut beneath his tunic, and his back was painfully straight.

What piqued Merrill's curiosity the most about their exchange was Aragorn's reaction; it took an awful lot to disturb his customary calm, and he wasn't exactly known for outbursts of emotion, so what was it that Gandalf had said that upset him so?

Merrill flopped on to her back and gazed up into the trees. Legolas had chosen to take his brief rest amongst the branches high above the camp, scaling its trunk within seconds and effectively vanishing amidst the falling leaves while the others had begun to prepare the evening meal, disinterested in further discussion and wanting only solitude.

The others shrugged his behavior off and went about their business, but the skin around Aragorn's eyes tightened, and he frowned at Legolas's retreat, and Merrill, herself, couldn't help but wonder about him; was he okay? What was it that he dreamt of? Who did he miss? What was his home like? His father? Merrill wanted to ask him about his mother, and the strange way Radhrion had spoken of her, but mostly, she wanted to know how he felt about her.

She half sat up, fingers twisting in her blanket as she considered her next move. Should she broach the fëa mate subject with him? What would that mean for their relationship down the line? Would it hurt him if she refused him outright? Would it hurt him to know she knew and still did nothing? And what would she even say—how could she possibly explain—about why she had to leave, or where she was going?

Merrill sank back into her bedroll and rubbed at her eyes; she was too tired to even attempt an excuse. _The truth would be easiest,_ she thought as she let her hands fall to rest on her chest, _but its consequences could be catastrophic._ _Besides, he'd never believe me._

She sighed internally at this last thought, not even bothering to examine why it upset her, and resettled herself, pulling her blanket up until it covered her nose, doing her best to relax.

Merrill took a deep breath in, then released it slowly, tensing her toes and relaxing them in time with her breathing until she fell into the natural rhythm.

Then a humming sound filled her head, and a wave of warmth washed over her body until she'd eased back against the ground, her eyes half-lidded. It was like sinking into a warm bath at the end of a long day, or the first sip of fresh-brewed coffee the next morning, and Merrill snuggled up into the sensation, her thoughts slowing until barely a trickle of consciousness was left to her.

Something brushed against her mind, something warm with affection and bright with hope, and Merrill tentatively reached out, imagining her hand outstretched in welcome. A moment passed, then the warmth took her hand in its own and Merrill, for reasons unknown, smiled.

* * *

 **\\\\-|-/**

 _"_ _Come, my darling! We must get off the road; that wound needs tending, and the Nazgul are near—I feel it."_

 _Merrill whirled around, taking in her surroundings in confusion. She was no longer in camp, curled up beside Radhrion. She was, once more, in unfamiliar woods, and the two, cloaked people from her dreams stumbled ahead of her, one clutching and leaning upon the other._

 _Something glinted like silver on the forest floor behind them, and Merrill stooped to examine the odd trail, grateful for the moonlight. It was blood. One of the pair was bleeding heavily. Her training with Nestadis told her that, if not treated soon, the blood loss would prove fatal._

 _The female grunted, hefting the other closer to her side. "You must remain conscious, darling. Simply imagine the embarrassment you will feel upon entering Imladris upon your grandmother's back! Dear Elrond might faint from the sight, and Eru knows what the twins might do." The woman paused to catch her breath, gazing up through the dark branches above her, and Merrill reeled at this new information._

 _This woman spoke of Elrond with some familiarity and was, apparently, the other mysterious man's grandmother; not for the first time Merrill wished she might see her face._

 _"_ _To think that neither you nor I have yet met them!" the woman continued. "I have heard a great many tales of their exploits, though I am certain that they pale in comparison to the reality." She sighed, resettling the man's arm around her shoulder while he groaned. "Only a little further, dear. If memory serves, the Trollshaws are just ahead, and we may find temporary shelter there."_

 _Merrill padded silently behind them, soaking up every bit of information she could; they hadn't noticed her, yet, and, from past experience, she knew it was unlikely they ever would. She was a ghost to them; in return for brief flashes into the lives of these two strangers, Merrill was made to maintain her distance by some invisible force which kept her at bay. It was all rather annoying if she was being honest, but only because she could not help them._

 _A shadow in the corner of her eye caught her attention; it moved without effort, as though gliding, and it was definitely heading towards them._

 _Merrill took a few steps towards it, peering through the fog, then drew up short; it had turned its head to face her, and she shivered as her blood ran cold. It was madness, it was rage, it was sorrow and envy given form. Malice emanated from this creature like smoke, the shadowy tendrils spilling across the forest floor like tentacles as the being sniffed the air. She didn't know how, but it definitely sensed her._

 _One glance and she knew the others would never make it without help, and since it seemed to notice her, she knew she really only had two options: run for her life, hide, and leave the man and woman to fend for themselves, or somehow attract its attention and lead it away… What she did know was that, if the man was to survive, she would have to create a distraction._

 _A yelp from behind her drew both the creatures, and her own, attention; the woman was tugging ineffectually at her companions arm, trying to pull him to his feet while simultaneously holding a wadded cloak to his bleeding side._

 _The monster perked up at this and changed directions, flowing towards the pair, and Merrill hesitated, looking around her for help, for someone else she could enlist to save them, but she was alone, lost in a dream, and she was all these strange people had._

It's just a dream, anyway. Even if it catches me, what's the worst that can happen? _She gulped as her active imagination supplied her with vivid answers to her stupidly asked question._ Well, that's me jinxed.I am absolutely going to regret this _. Merrill closed her eyes, took a shaky breath, and then yelled, "Hey, you!"_

 _The creature's head snapped sharply in her direction, and the smoky tentacles oozed towards her, sliding over the ground like water._

 _Merrill turned on her heel and sprinted in the opposite direction, her dream-heart pounding in her chest. All she could do was lead it away from them and hope that her death in a dream wouldn't mean her death in reality._

 _Trees flashed past her, branches tearing at her hair and clothes as she vaulted over half rotted trunks and rocks, her breathing coming out in harsh gasps, her body shaking with adrenaline. Merrill could feel the thing getting closer; it was ice and dread, and the closer it came, the more concrete the feeling became until it was all she could do to keep breathing._

 _A stone bridge loomed ahead of her, a welcome sight after her flight through the forest, and Merrill sped her feet, pushing herself harder and faster. Something, some instinct, perhaps, told her that she would be safe if she crossed the water._

 _Halfway across, and the icy pressure on her back burst and Merrill screamed, falling to her knees, her body jerking as though she'd been struck by lightning, her lungs stunned and spasming against her rib cage like a pair of fish on dry land._

 _She fell face forward until her cheek pressed against the cool stone, unable to do so much as move her fingers. And then she heard it; the rasping of a blade being pulled from a sheath, and the faintest, whisper-chant that steadily increased in volume._

 _A cool, tingling spread through her system as something sharp pressed against her spine, and, though she could not move, Merrill's spirit retreated deep into herself, frantically tearing through the halls of her own mind in search of somewhere she could hide until she came upon her center, the room filled to bursting with ill-organized boxes of memories, emotions, thoughts, and her power._

 _Merrill stumbled towards the box she used to hold her healing ability, tripping and knocking other boxes out of the way in her haste, her body numb from the waist down, and plunged her hands into its depths, the flames climbing up her arms, leaving nothing but blisters and charred skin in its wake. But this pain was infinitely preferable to the alternative._

 _Cold, metallic hands scrabbled at her throat and slammed her head against the stone of the bridge until Merrill's vision went red. Her hands ripped and tore at the things face, but it was no good; her concentration faded, her power slipped, and everything went dark around the edges._

The monster leaned closer, its face enveloped in shadow, and rasped, **"Thrak alba shira glob. Krimpi-ishi lug."** _(1)_ ** _  
_**

 _Panic crept into her heart; she could see nothing but darkness, and, for one, terrifying moment, she'd thought she had gone blind._

 _The thing continued to whisper, its voice sinister, but quieter than death. And slowly, she lost sensation; it trickled away. Physically, she felt nothing, spiritually, she'd been cast into a frozen lake with her feet weighted and her hands tied. She was muffled, fearful, and colder than she'd ever been._

 _Then—sunlight; the fall of golden hair, the smell of the night air, and eyes more cutting than glaciers; her teacher, her task-master, her duty, and her diligence. It was just a moment—a moment of a moment—but it was enough._

 _Merrill blinked hard against the ringing in her head and coaxed the warmth to her fingertips, feeling them crack and peel from the heat, then let go; it hurtled through her body, melting the ice and burning the shadows from her flesh like acid until she gasped, her lips parting for breath and her eyes opening to the night sky._

 _A bright flash of pain, and she rolled to her knees, whimpering and cradling her pounding head as the world spun._

 _She rocked back and forth, her hands tight against her scalp; it hurt. Everything hurt. Her head rang and trembled like a bell, the vibrations so sharp that she felt them down her neck, past her chattering teeth, and through her spine._

 _When the vibrations had receded and she felt well enough, Merrill tried to mentally assess her injuries; as far as she could tell, she was still alive. Alive and seemingly alone._

Where had it gone? Would it return? Had it found the others? _Merrill cautiously pushed herself up until she sat on her knees and tried to just breathe for a moment, focusing on what her senses told her._

 _The river rushed beneath her, its crashing, shushing sound soothing to her aching ears, the night air sat comfortably cool against her over-heated skin, and the stone bridge was empty. The monster was gone._

 _Her relief was tangible. Merrill dragged herself over to the side of the bridge and slumped against it, scrubbing at her face with her torn and dirtied sleeve until her hands grew steady, her breathing calmed, and her tears had mostly stopped._

 _Her throat was bruised and it hurt to swallow, but this was nothing she hadn't experienced before. She wondered why the monster hadn't just stabbed her and been done with it. It had a sword, after all, Merrill had felt its point pressing into her spine, so why had it bothered trying to knock her unconscious? Unless it hadn't been trying to kill her._

 _Merrill gulped then winced; it wasn't a pleasant thought, and she could only imagine what it might have had planned for her. Capture never boded well, and prisoners of war rarely came out the other side alive. That thought also made her uncomfortable. Prisoner of war… a term she never thought she'd use in relation to herself, and yet, that's what she would have been, and what the others would be if she didn't get up now to help them._

 _She stumbled to her feet, biting back a moan, and headed back into the woods, limping a little. The nasty feeling had gone from her surroundings, so Merrill didn't worry about being attacked again, though she did move with more caution than she had before. She might be ghostly in this dream world to most of its inhabitants, but apparently other ghosts could see her just fine; a good thing to know, especially as it seemed her visits to this place weren't stopping any time soon._

 _Merrill's head was on a swivel, on the lookout for further danger, but her feet were quick, and she managed to find the man and woman without too much effort. However, she was dismayed to find them not much further from where she'd left them. The man had collapsed, feverish, and Merrill caught a glimpse of pale skin, wide lips, and a dramatic jawline before the woman's hand blocked her view._

 _The woman rocked back on her heels, her arms wrapped tight around her body as she thought. "I believe I must do something, my dear. If I wait any longer, the Nazgul will be upon us, and we will both be killed, regardless."_

 _The man coughed wetly and Merrill jumped; she had thought him long unconscious. "We cannot take that risk." He hissed when she reapplied pressure to his wound, winding a length of dark cloth about his middle and knotting it off with efficient hands._

 _The woman yanked on the knot, causing the man to cry out. "We must do something! If we are captured, we can always escape—I have done it before—but I imagine retrieving your soul from Mandos will prove more difficult." She took his bloody hands in her own and her voice softened. "Please, allow me to do this for you, my dear."_

 _The man shook his head jerkily, and the woman's knuckles turned white. "You know why I cannot, Melben." He coughed long and hard, Melben rubbing his back until he stopped, and he wheezed, "We are so close. Rivendell is but a few day's journey… I know you desire answers just as much as I do. She's—"_

 _A twig snapped in the distance, and all three of them flinched, Melben going still and listening hard._

 _When nothing attacked them, and no further noises were made, Melben urged the man to his feet, doing most of the lifting until he was leaning upon her once more. She inhaled deeply through her nose, attempting to compose herself. "If this is what you wish, Delior, then I shall not gainsay you. Let us go—there are likely several wraiths in the area, and I would prefer we not meet."_

 _Delior, the man, nodded, dark hair slipping from his hood, and they began to move._

 _It was slow going; Delior was in so much pain that he nearly lost consciousness, but still he went on, Melben steady at his side, and Merrill followed the pair discreetly, still shaken up by her encounter with what she was just beginning to realize was a ringwraith._

 _Had she nearly become one of them? Was that what it had been trying to do with all that chanting and strangling? And why was it interested in her? She didn't have the ring, after all, and she had never, to her knowledge, mentioned in it any of these dreams of hers. In fact, Merrill couldn't remember speaking much, at all._

 _After what could have been a few minutes or several hours, the path beneath their feet rose up into a respectable incline, and twisting roots, eager to catch a careless boot, and stones and pebbles prepared to roll an ankle, grew more and more frequent until Melben finally gave up and slung her companion onto her back, tucking her forearms under his knees._

 _Melben huffed a little, but managed to remain steady. "Almost there, little star."_

 _The trees closed in on their small party the further they walked, and the moonlight faded beneath the thick branches. But Merrill could still see enough to note the steady fall of blood peppering the mast beneath her boots, and her heart sped up as she calculated Delior's chances._

I think it's safe to assume he's not a human, at this rate, if only because he hasn't died from blood loss, yet. So… Elf, then? Probably. They mentioned Elrond and the twins with some familiarity, and it is difficult to imagine any human doing that, other than Aragorn. _Merrill sped up, pushing hard against the transparent barrier that kept her from getting too close._ Even for an Elf, this is too much. She needs to get him somewhere safe, bind his wound, and start pumping him full of fluids immediately, or he won't make it.

 _Merrill retreated, lining her shoulder up with their backs, and took a deep breath._ I don't care if I'm breaking any of your ridiculous rules, _she thought defiantly, hoping her words would reach whoever was controlling her dreams._ He's wounded and he needs my help! Why else would you bring me here? _And with that, Merrill dug into the earth and launched forward, the muscles in her legs tensing and releasing beneath her, her arms pumping by her sides, and her eyes set unflinchingly on her invisible goal._

 _Her shoulder made contact, sending a jarring pain shooting down her body, and she was thrown backwards, landing in a tangled heap a few feet away._

 _Merrill moaned, her dream-self one, solid ache. Every inch of her hurt, even her teeth throbbed, and she had to check to make sure her left arm hadn't been torn off on impact._

 _Angry now, she got to her feet and squared back up. "Hey!" She yelled, her sore throat throbbing as she cupped her hands around her mouth. "You can't wait any longer; if you don't see to his wound now, he'll be dead within the hour."_

 _The woman halted mid-step and Merrill tried again. "I know you probably can't hear me, but please! You need to stop now, or he'll die."_

 _The woman hiked the man further up her back and resumed her trek, though there was a renewed vigor to her step, and Merrill saw why; a cave lay, half-hidden, beneath the roots of a massive Oak._

 _"_ _Yes!" Merrill whooped and then dissolved into a fit of coughing, her sore throat vigorously protesting its mistreatment._

 _Within moments, the woman had hauled her companion into the dark, and Merrill, intent on following, got to her knees and crawled over the damp earth, feeling stones and twigs digging into the soft flesh of her palms, and long, thin roots catching in her hair and stroking down her back like skeletal fingers._

 _The air smelled of dead leaves, moist earth, moss, and rain-soaked wood; a pleasant smell, and Merrill did her best to focus on that rather than on the increasing dark and the sensation of confinement._

 _Then light bloomed before her and Merrill's jaw fell open; the woman, cloak still concealing her face, set a flashlight into the earth so its beam shot up and illuminated the space._

 _A thousand thoughts crowded around her mind, pushing and tumbling over one another like clumsy kittens, but the woman's next words stopped them all._

 _"_ _Thank you, Merrill. I will keep him safe, I swear it."_

 _"_ _How—" Merrill began, but the world dissolved around her, and she was falling, falling, falling._

Someone was shaking her roughly, and voices faded in and out around her like an old radio, thick with static and interference.

"Why d'you reckon she was glowin', Mister Gandalf, sir?" Sam's voice was as sweet as ever, but tinted with concern. Merrill could almost see him, hovering over the others, shifting from one large foot to another, and with some form of food or tea held hopefully in his hands.

"I dunno," Pippin replied dubiously. "Perhaps it was the mushrooms we gathered for supper, Sam?"

Someone scoffed. "That's absurd, Pippin," Merry admonished. "Who ever heard of mushrooms that make a body glow?"

"Well," Pippin said defensively, "it makes as much sense as anything else does these days."

"Agreed," Boromir grunted from somewhere to her left.

"Let us all hope it was the mushrooms," Gimli grumbled darkly.

"None of the rest of us are glowing, Pippin," Frodo pointed out kindly, his voice soft with sleep.

"Hush, now!" Gandalf barked. "Leave her to Radhrion and myself. That means you, as well, Legolas."

Merrill heard rustling as the company did as they were bid and wished she could just open her eyes and tell them she was fine, but her throat was closed off, and her body was paralyzed.

"Goheno nin, Mithrandir, but I shall remain here." Legolas's voice was smooth, but there was an undercurrent of defiance.

A grumble tickled her ear, and Gandalf muttered, "Save me from the stubbornness of princes!"

Someone stroked her hair back from her forehead, and a calloused palm rested there as Gandalf began to chant beneath his breath.

The paralysis began to budge, and Merrill worked at moving her toes and her fingers while the others spoke around her.

"Little bird?" Radhrion tried tentatively, taking her hand in his and squeezing. "Merrill?"

The hand on her forehead lifted. "She is in the bloom of health. There isn't a thing wrong with her that I can see."

"Then why does she not wake?!"

Merrill cringed; Radhrion was panicking, which never boded well. The last time he'd panicked, he'd tried to kill Glorfindel, and the time before that, he had fully intended on leaving Rivendell with nothing more than his wits and a dagger strapped to his waist. Panic and Radhrion didn't mix.

She strained to move her fingers, but there was still some disconnect between her brain and her nerves. _Did that wraith do something to me?_ Merrill thought, her mind's voice raising a few octaves as she struggled to remain calm. _Did he paralyze me?_

A deep sigh, and then, "Radhrion, may I speak with you, alone, for a moment?"

The hand around her own tightened. "I do not wish to leave her side."

"I am afraid I must insist," came Gandalf's reply.

Several heartbeats passed in silence before Radhrion acquiesced. "Very well." He pulled her blanket up to her chin, settling her to his satisfaction before getting up and moving away.

Someone shifted closer to her and took her hand in his, bringing it close to his face, and Merrill's sensitive nose caught the familiar scent of Juniper. For once, she was truly glad for Legolas's stubbornness, glad not to be alone.

"Anin gell nîn, echuia," he murmured, his sweet breath warm against her hand, and his voice pitched low. (2)

When there was no response, Legolas leaned forward, pressing his forehead to her own, his eyelashes fluttering closed against her cheek. Something comforting, like spring sunlight, or warm, strawberry rhubarb pie fresh from the oven, filled her at his touch, and Merrill allowed the sensation to overcome her, embracing it mentally and exhaling long, and slow, and deep.

"Athog ceno nin?" (3)

The warmth, the comfort, the light (Merrill wasn't sure what to call it) spread gently through her stiffened limbs, encouraging blood flow and movement, and within moments, Merrill felt it diffuse across her face and she finally opened her eyes.

"Hi," Merrill croaked, smiling crookedly at his expression.

Legolas brought her hand back up to his face, pressing his lips to the top of her hand and squeezing his eyes shut.

His lips were gentle and softer than down, and something about the respectful way he did it caused a dull ache in her chest and sent a rush of heat to flood her cheeks.

"Hello," he replied, his voice rough.

Merrill tried to say something to defuse the situation, but he stopped her with a finger to her lips. His eyes were open now, and they shuttled between her own, searching for something.

Merrill swallowed thickly and looked down at their joined hands. "How long was I asleep?"

"No longer than four or so hours," he replied, his other hand stroking the soft skin between her knuckles. "You woke us all with your cries," he added, shadows under his eyes.

Merrill pulled their hands up to rest on her stomach and, tentatively, patted them. "I'm sorry I worried you all. It was, well, just a bad dream."

Legolas shook his head. "In my experience, night terrors do not leave one glowing with a golden light."

 _Glowing?_ She thought uneasily. _I was glowing? Did I accidentally access my healing abilities?_

Aloud, she tried for a laugh, noting with some alarm that neither her lips nor her head hurt any longer. "What can I say? You don't know everything about me. Maybe glowing nightmares are my thing."

Legolas wrapped his hands around her wrists, his fingertips on her pulse, and stared, unblinkingly, into her eyes. _I do know that you have many secrets, secrets which Elrond and Mithrandir, both, wish you to keep from me, and I also know that you are not quite like any other being I have ever met._

Merrill yanked her hands back and sat bolt upright. "What the hell was that?!"

He held his hands out to her, waiting patiently for her to accept them.

Warily, and with no little degree of hesitation, Merrill inched forward and set her hands lightly in his own, his palms hot against her wrists.

 _We may communicate this way because of our bond,_ Legolas explained silently. _Though it takes a great deal of energy to do so in our current state._

Merrill focused hard, but couldn't get her thoughts across to him. She gave up and said, "What does that mean? 'In our current state'?"

 _Until we are fully bonded, fully joined, speaking this way will require more effort on both of our parts, and it will not be as reliable a method of communication as it might have been otherwise._

His thumbs brushed lazy circles into the sensitive skin of her wrist, and her heart fluttered in her chest, but she managed to ask, "Must we be in contact?"

 _Yes._

Merrill slipped her hands out of his hold and scooted back, the ache from her dream returning to press against her temples.

Legolas reached out to touch her face, but she drew back, asking quickly, "What were you saying about me?"

His hands fell into his lap, but his gaze remained steady on her face, something bright burning just behind the blue. "You, Merrill Mabray, are willful and defensive. Your words often do not make sense, and you are guarded with all but Radhrion. On many occasions you have demonstrated your impatience, and towards many you have shown either an open dislike or a cold indifference. You can be immature, and your sense of humor is frequently incomprehensible…"

Merrill broke her staring contest with his tunic and glared up at him. "Well, that was just plain rude."

"However," he continued, a gentle smile on his lips, his thumb stroking along her jaw, "you are also faithful, affectionate, and unfailingly kind. Your dedication to your studies, your enthusiasm for knowledge, and your deep regard for those whom you have taken into your heart is apparent to all, and admired by none more than myself." Legolas's fingers fell from her chin but Merrill didn't move away. "I acknowledge that our acquaintance has been short, however it does not feel so. A warmth spreads throughout my fëa each time our eyes meet or our hands touch, and it tells me that I have always known you."

Legolas moved forward until their knees touched, and a strange thrill ran through her; she finally understood what it was she felt when they touched. That strange, trembling, warm, sparkling, effervescent something that confounded her at every turn was his soul.

He raised his hands to the sides of her head and asked, "May I?"

 _No_ , her rational side replied. _You may not touch me. This will only lead to pain. We can't do this; it's unwise, irrational, and messy. Stop now. Don't look for me anymore; it'll be best for us both in the long run. Forget me. This isn't real, anyway._

"Yes," Merrill breathed, and Legolas inhaled sharply, the blue of his eyes darkening, and they stayed like that for a span that might have been eternity, the possibilities of their future rolling out between them like a ship's sail unfurling to catch the wind; a shared dream of a life lived together, and in joy. _Images spun out, replete with the answers to all of the questions Merrill had longed to ask earlier that evening; there, a young Legolas, silvery hair flaring out behind him like a banner as he rushed into the arms of an Elf she could only presume was his father going by the family resemblance. The older Elf beamed, eyes shining, as he spun the boy around, the sunlight around them tinted green as it passed through the thick canopy of leaves overhead; his fourteenth Nameday, Legolas intimated silently._

 _Then that image faded away and another took its place; Legolas's father slumped in a chair cradling a small portrait in his hands. The woman in the painting had hair as dark as Merrill's own, but straight, eyes that shone like liquid gold, and a playful smile. Legolas, looking very much like he did at present, entered the room, an uncharacteristic gravity about him as he came to kneel before his father. He offered his hands and his father, face turned away and chest heaving, took them; Legolas sat there for what seemed like hours, and Merrill learned that this was the last anniversary of his mother's death for which he had been home. An undercurrent of concern rippled along their connection, and Merrill tried to imagine a wave of warmth surrounding him._

 _Merrill focused on her own mother, then, imagining every detail of her well-known face; the long, straight nose, the full lips, naturally a dusky rose color, the expressive, black brows over hazel eyes, and the dramatic fall of her thick, black hair. She recalled the floral, amber musk of the perfume she'd worn since she was seventeen, the strength of her fine hands as they wove her hair, and the warmth and comfort of her arms in times of distress._

 _When Legolas questioned her about her father, Merrill moved away from the thought, merely reiterating the images of her and her mother until he acknowledged he understood._

 _She thought of Anne, remembering the day they'd first met; Anne was all corkscrew curly black hair, big eyes, and braces. Merrill tried to imbue her memories with the smell of the ocean, the feel of the beach they spent most of their weekends on, the taste of sunflower seeds and salt and vinegar chips. She showered Legolas in the feeling, the essence, of their friendship; ease, simplicity, bad jokes, and deep, un-abiding affection._

 _And then, as the images they rushed to share slowed to a trickle, one scene, in particular, stood out; it was their families. Merrill recognized her mother, Radhrion, and Legolas's father from the merry grouping, but there were two others she did not know. They stood on a white marble overlook, the valley below dotted with golds and greens, chatting amicably, with Radhrion at the center relating some tale with his usual enthusiasm, much to the apparent delight of her mother, whose head was thrown back in laughter._

 _The scene shifted, and suddenly Merrill watched herself racing across the plains atop a red horse, grinning over at the silvery blond Elf keeping pace at her side, his own expression mirroring her joy._

 _Merrill shouted something and the horse flew forward, leaving a startled Legolas behind. The wind whistled past her ears, ripped at her tunic; the sun beat down on her back, and her heart raced._

 _Merrill reined up and leapt from her horse as Legolas dismounted, dancing around and poking him in the ribs playfully until he snatched her hand and pulled her into a searing kiss that left her knees weak._

 _And then she saw three companions moving through the cool, autumn evening, entering deep woods, mist curling about gnarled roots, the moon tripping lightly across the branches, to glittering caves, the distant ceiling an expanse of diamonds illuminated by the torches they carried. And then—Legolas; just Legolas, eyes soft in a way that melted her heart, hair pulled back by a willowy, silver circlet, his hands in her own, standing beneath a living archway in the middle of an empty forest—and two, silver rings._

Merrill's breath caught and she turned her head away, resting it against his shoulder.

Legolas stroked her hair with a hand that shook, the other clutching her tight to his chest, and Merrill listened to the thunder of his heart until it steadied.

 _This is wrong. It is all wrong. I'm not supposed to fall for him; I'm not supposed to imagine a future with him. I know this. I do. So why do I keep doing this to him? Why do I keep allowing myself to be swayed?_ Merrill squeezed her eyes shut hard.

The warmth she now knew was Legolas brushed against her mind. _I do not understand. Why do you sorrow?_

Merrill pushed her face harder into his chest, biting her tongue. She wanted to say: Because you're perfect, and none of this is real. Because my real life is waiting for me, filled with people who are waiting for me, missing me. Because, if this is a dream, it's only a matter of time before my alarm goes off, or the nightmare begins. But all she managed was, "I have to wake up."

Legolas's hand stilled against her hair. _You are awake_ , his mind's voice replied, confused.

Merrill knew she had to pull away, to pull away and create distance, but she allowed herself one last indulgence, breathing in the smell of his tunic, juniper, leather, and sunlight, and committing the feel of his arms around her to memory.

 _Merrill_ — Legolas began, anticipation and distress coloring his voice, but she stood and stepped back before he could say anymore.

Legolas stood, too, instinctively reaching out to touch her, brows raised and eyes wide, but Merrill shook her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the ground, too much the coward to look him in the eyes. "I am leaving. I can't stay. I know I owe you more of an explanation, but please, just trust me when I tell you that it wouldn't help."

If she had slapped him, he couldn't have looked more surprised or hurt.

Merrill noticed the camp behind him, and behind that, the trees, and a part of her seriously considered running into the forest to escape this feeling; this overwhelming, stuck in her throat feeling that stung her eyes and left her chest aching. But mostly, her mind screamed at her that Elrond and Radhrion had been right; this was so much worse than ignoring their bond. She'd seen what was possible, a future life with him, and now she knew what she was giving up.

"Ah! Come, Radhrion; she's awake." Gandalf's voice shattered the silence, and Merrill swiped numbly at her cheeks before turning to greet him.

"Little bird!"

Merrill smiled weakly. "I know, I know. I'm never to scare you like that a—oof!"

Radhrion hugged her tight, pulling away only when she pounded half-heartedly on his back in protest. "You're awake!"

Merrill tensed at his words, eyes skipping involuntarily towards where Legolas now stood, brows drawn high in confusion and his heart in his eyes.

Gandalf peeled Radhrion off her and took her chin in his hand, turning her face this way and that, gray eyes catching every shift in her expression. "Well," he said, releasing her, "she is quite well, Radhrion, though weary, I expect, and in need of a great deal of food and tea, if either are at hand."

Radhrion sprung to, dashing to his pack, and Legolas bowed his head politely and turned back into the forest, disappearing into the shadows without so much as glancing in her direction.

Merrill's heart twinged and she swallowed around the sudden tightness in her throat; it was then that she acknowledged, without pretense and in weary submission to the inevitable, that a part of her had gone with him.

Gandalf, his face softening, said kindly, "All will be well, Merrill. But, first, rest. We must speak, you and I."

She nodded mechanically, and wondered, in a detached sort of way, what it was he wished to say to her. It was probably something important, but Merrill couldn't bring herself to care enough to ruminate on it longer.

When he offered his arm, Merrill took it, allowing him to lead her back to camp, and after she had sipped at the tea Radhrion had brought her, they all finally let her rest.

Merrill curled into her bedroll, knees tight to her chest, and stared into the distance until the sky lightened in the East and the sounds of the others stirring heralded a new day.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **1.)** ** _Bring the elf-woman filth to me. Bind her in the tower (Black Speech)._**

 **2.) For my joy, awaken (Wood Elf dialect of Sindarin).**

 **3.) Would you please look at me?**

 **Hey, all. Thank you SO much for your comments! I promise I've read every one, but I don't have time to shout you out individually right now. Next chapter, I promise. :)**

 **I did want to say that some of you have had some rather good guesses as of late, though... :) So keep it up.**

 **Ummm, let's see... I wanted to mention Nameday-so Elves don't celebrate birthdays, they celebrate the day they were conceived because, for Elves, it takes an incredible amount of power and will to create life; they don't get pregnant accidentally, or in the heat of the moment. It is very much a conscious, effortful decision. But "Begetting" day didn't sound right to me, hence "Nameday."**

 **Next chapter is gonna be about this long, or longer, and it leads up to Moria (and I'm just beginning to work on the parts inside Moria), so look forward to that, I guess.**

 **Thank you all, again, for your comments, faves, reviews, and kindly offers of support; I love you all.**

 **Best wishes, and stay safe ~**

 **Catali7**


	38. Chapter 38

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After a forgettable breakfast, they shouldered their packs and moved on, their feet quickening as they closed in on their destination.

Gimli's promises of food, beer, and beds urged the others on like nothing else. Even Frodo, a pale shade in clothes that hung loosely off his frame, perked up at the Dwarf's promises, something like anticipation lighting his weary, blue eyes.

"Just you wait, lass. There is nothing like a Dwarven welcome; malt beer, meat falling from the bone, sæt deig, errr…" He paused, noting Merrill's confusion, and continued, "They're like soft bread, sweetened with a mixture of goat's milk and honey and baked in svínakjöt until they're golden and crisp." **(1)  
**

Merrill nodded, but her heart wasn't in it. She was the only one who knew they were walking into Hell, complete with partially decomposed corpses, mass graves, wicked, demonic beings, and a giant, flaming, red devil. Gimli's imaginings would be extinguished in just a few hours more; he'd learn that his kin and many others had been cruelly slaughtered and left to rot, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

"…on a feather mattress!" Gimli elbowed her, grinning, and added, "Now if that don't beat all, eh?"

Merrill smiled feebly. "It sounds wonderful, Gimlet."

Gimli barreled on, requiring only the occasional grunt of agreement or smile, and Merrill, still numb from all that had occurred the previous night, did her best to humor him.

Merrill rubbed at her temples, doing her utmost to ignore the gentle humming she felt there. She knew what it was, now—she knew what it meant—and, knowing this, she knew there was nothing to be done but to pretend it didn't exist.

This, of course, would be simpler if it hurt her, but it was a warm, drowsing feeling. It was summer, and buzzing bees. It was mint tea, and daffodils, and the golden glow of the midafternoon sun. It was the warm embrace of a long-awaited friend at the airport, and hot chocolate in a snowstorm, because, even when hurt by her, even when upset with her, Legolas wished her nothing but happiness.

Gimli, having given her up as a bad job, sped his pace to regale the Hobbits with his tales of food and welcome, and the sounds of his excitement drifted back to her on the wind until she thought she might wither away and die on the spot from her guilt.

The wind, capricious as ever, carried with it, too, the scent of juniper. Legolas had taken the lead, walking before Gandalf and Aragorn as a scout and, occasionally, returning to report before fading back into the landscape.

He hadn't said a word to her since they'd parted the previous night. She should have felt relieved. She should have appreciated his respectful adherence to her wishes. She should have felt a lot of things, but she didn't. All Merrill knew was that she had never been more done with Middle Earth than she was now.

Gradually, the trees lessened, birds vanished from the skyline, and the road they tread became treacherous, large, black slabs of broken stone turned up in the dry, cracked earth like a collection of crooked teeth. Each slab had once been as long as a horse, and at least twice as wide from what Merrill could see, and the few that remained told her that those who had placed them there had known what they were doing.

A dried up riverbed ran beside the road, the barest trickle of water still sliding down its great length to destinations unknown. Gimli seemed disheartened at its appearance, and stood off to the side of the road for a moment, nudging a few rocks with his steel toed boots and scratching under his helm.

"This was once the Gate Stream," he said softly, clearly speaking to himself. "It lead to the Stair Falls of Moria, and the great thunder of its waters could be heard for miles 'round." Gimli peered down the road, but no noise could be heard except the moan of the wind through the skeletal trees and the soft plodding of the company's boots. "What treachery has befallen the halls of my kin?"

Aragorn placed his hand on the Dwarf's shoulder and squeezed, his gray eyes tired, but kind. "It may be nothing more than the cold winter in the Silvertines freezing its source, Gimli. Let us go on and see for ourselves."

Gimli nodded and caught up to the rest of the company, brassy brown eyes set dead ahead, and his chin firm, but Merrill knew that Aragorn was wrong. More importantly, Merrill felt it; the land was sick, something had poisoned it, and no living thing except themselves was foolish enough to traverse it.

Four, short hours later and Gimli cried, "The West Gate! Look, little ones." He gestured down the hill towards a massive, black cliff face. "The home of my kin! Its walls sparkle with the silver veins of Mithril, and the coolest, sweetest ale bubbles up in great fountains! Soon, we shall eat and rest to our heart's content."

Pippin squinted, getting up on tip toe, his brow wrinkled. "It doesn't look like much to me."

Merry groaned at Pippin's lack of tact, and Sam shook his head, hefting his pack further up his back.

Gimli bristled, but Radhrion intercepted him and said smoothly, "That's because you have yet to see inside, Pippin. The glories and comforts of Dwarven halls are too numerous to count. It must be experienced to be understood. In fact," Radhrion added, "you should tell him more of Moria, Gimli, so that he can fully appreciate it when we enter."

Gimli's chest puffed out a bit at that and he grumbled his assent, gesturing that Pippin should follow.

As they approached, Merrill noticed the great lake before the cliff face, as black and dull as the rock looming over it, but somehow more menacing. Its surface was still, despite the wind's best efforts, and the smell that emanated from it put her in mind of Biology class in school; it smelled of rot and formaldehyde.

Merrill stopped when they came before the cliff face, and the whole party craned their necks back to stare up into the rock.

"How do we get inside, Gimli?" Frodo asked tiredly, and the others, excepting Gandalf, all turned to face him.

Gimli shifted, his chin setting mulishly beneath the copper forest of his beard. "That is for Dwarves, and Dwarves alone, to know."

"Okay," Merrill said slowly, "so can you open it if we all turn around and promise not to peek?"

"No," Gimli huffed.

Boromir ground his teeth together. "Then how, pray, do you expect us to gain entry?"

Gimli turned bright red beneath his helm, and his fists clenched tightly around his belt, but he was saved from replying by Gandalf.

"We must wait until moonrise. If I guess correctly, these doors are marked with Ithildin, and the way forward will be revealed through moonlight." Gandalf sank down beside the door, already fishing in the sleeves of his robe for his pipe, but Boromir stepped out before him, storm clouds on his brow.

"Do you mean to tell me that we are trapped outside this miserable, festering wreck?"

Gandalf tapped his pipe, taking his time in lighting it, before replying, "I believe I was clear in my explanation; we will wait until moonrise for the way to be revealed." He raked his gaze over Boromir and added meaningfully, "I suggest you take this time to rest for, forgive me, you do not look at all well."

Boromir bristled but said no more. He nodded, his lips thin and tight over his teeth, and spun on his heel, striding away into the dark beneath the cliff face and flinging his things down beside him, and the others, after a few moments of standing about awkwardly, followed suit, scattering about the area in clumps and speaking quietly amongst themselves.

Merrill plopped down beside Radhrion and Aragorn, both of whom observed the water intently, and unfastened the bow at her back. It still shone silver and white against her arms, and she traced the ridges in the dragon's tooth that made up its spine thoughtfully.

Calavailë, Windsong, Elrond had called her; a bow whose aim was true as long as the heart of the one who wielded it was pure. Merrill grimaced; she was certain she didn't fit that description. But still, she wished she'd continued practicing with it while they'd travelled.

Getting to her feet, she strung the bow with no little amount of difficulty and attempted to draw it back; the muscles in her arms remembered the motion better than she did, though her fingers were stiff and clumsy, and it took a few minutes before she was able to draw the string without tangling herself in it.

"It has been many years since last I saw that ring," Radhrion said, gesturing to Aragorn's hand, and Merrill surreptitiously glanced at it from the corner of her eye. "I must admit that I am surprised to find you wearing it. From everything Elrond has told me, you do not often openly associate yourself with such symbols of the past."

Aragorn shifted, his eyes falling to examine his hand. "Elrond, himself, bestowed it upon me the day I came of age." His face closed off and he retrieved a dagger from his wrist guard, checking the edge and rubbing it clean with his tunic. "It was the same day I learned of the great infirmity of my bloodline; the same day I determined I should never lay claim to my heritage."

Radhrion's mobile brows quirked and Aragorn laughed humorlessly. "And yet I am here, you wish to say. Yes, I am, however there were… extenuating circumstances, circumstances you, yourself, could not fail to recognize."

"Ah." Radhrion nodded, face lighting with understanding. "I see. Elrond never mentioned… well, I suppose we had other things to be getting on with at the time. It must have escaped him."

Aragorn slipped the ring from his finger and offered it to Radhrion, the silver glinting in the dying sunlight. "Forgive me. Would you care to…?"

"No, no, no," Radhrion said, shaking his head, his hands raised before him. "Though I thank you for the offer, my boy." He closed Aragorn's hand around it, patting it warmly. "I know the story of your blood yet brings you grief, however I hope you will remember the one for whom this ring is named with pride, for he was worthy of that and more."

Aragorn bowed his head, replacing the ring with a respect that made Merrill smile. "Le fael, Radhrion." **(2)**

Radhrion waved him away, turning his sights on Merrill, who had long ago given up pretending not to listen and now sat quite close to where he stood, smiling up at him sheepishly, her bow forgotten in her lap.

"It would appear that you require some task with which to occupy yourself, little bird." He unsheathed his sword, ignoring her objections, and looked at her expectantly. "Well? We should use what time the gods have given us to better prepare ourselves for the trials ahead, do not you agree, Merrill, dear?"

Merrill, grumbling, brushed off her backside and fetched her sword from her pack; she wore it at her hip, but hardly remembered its existence until she tried to sit down.

The leather grip felt good against her palm; Merrill spun the sword in a circle, loosening her wrist up. She nodded to Radhrion when she was ready.

Without warning, he lunged, the silver flash of his sword whistling in the air as she ducked his blow and backed away, watching him warily.

He barked a laugh at her expression. " _Block_ my strikes, little bird. Now—" he slashed at her open side and she was forced to dance away, nearly tripping in her surprise. "Tell me what so upset you last evening?"

A pit opened up in her stomach, but she shoved the sensation aside, raising her sword to block his strike, the clash of metal painful to her sensitive ears. "I don't really want to get into it, Ronners."

His sword came down heavy against her own and Merrill did her best to hold up against the flurry of his strikes, gritting her teeth, her feet sliding in the mud as he pushed on.

Radhrion pulled back after a few moments, allowing her the chance to recover, but he shook his head, clenching and unclenching the grip of his sword, his dark hair sliding against the deep green of his tunic. "I can guess the cause of your distraction." His cloud gray eyes landed on Legolas, whose own gaze was fixed on the black of the water. "He, too, appears to be… out of sorts."

Merrill shrugged. "Well, when the universe screws with your life and demands that you wish for something you can never have, it's only right to be upset."

Radhrion sheathed his sword and steered her a little away from the company, helping her to sit before joining her, his hand raking through his hair as he considered the water.

The silence stretched out around them, flexing its claws and yawning hugely. Radhrion allowed it, seemingly just as lost for words as she, herself, was.

"You told him." It was a statement without judgment, merely an acknowledgment of obvious fact, and the knot in Merrill's stomach loosened.

"Not everything," she whispered, licking her lips, "but he knows the important bits."

The wind shrieked through the fissures in the rocks around them, and Merrill shivered involuntarily at the noise, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

Radhrion rubbed hard at his ears and then glared darkly at the mass of black rock behind them. "Bloody, cursed, Dwarven…" he trailed off and sighed. "How are you?"

Merrill finally looked at him, and the wrinkles in his brow, and the frown upon his lips, warmed her heart. She pulled at the corners of his mouth to make him smile, and he frowned harder, just to be contrary. "You never stop worrying about me, do you?" she asked curiously, his face sandwiched between her palms.

He took her hands in his, his cloud gray eyes gentling. "You haven't given me any other option, my dear."

Merrill's heart swelled at his tone, and she wrapped him up in a hug, closing her eyes against the unexpected rush of affection she felt for him. "And you love every second."

Radhrion squeezed her tight, and then released her, clearing his throat. "You haven't a shred of proof, little bird, and I intend to thoroughly deny it."

"Merrill?" Gandalf called, and Merrill and Radhrion both turned to face him. "Might I have a moment?"

Merrill faced Radhrion once more, her lips twisting. "What d'you reckon that's about?"

Radhrion stood, taking her arm in his, and lead her to his pack. He stooped down and pulled a dented silver flask from his things, offering it to her with a smile. "I cannot begin to guess what Mithrandir wants with you, my dear. He is a complex being with more secrets than myself, which is saying something."

Merrill yanked the cork out and took a sip; berries and mandarin oranges, spiced honey, and a bright burst of lemon. She took another mouthful, reveling in the taste, before returning it, wiping her mouth off on her sleeve and exhaling happily. "I needed that," Merrill said dreamily, feeling the slow warmth spreading throughout her body, the light easing the headache she'd been working on since the previous night and releasing the knots that had kinked in her shoulders. "And what secrets?"

He winked at her. "The general kind, little bird. Nothing undignified, I assure you." Radhrion took a swig, his eyes closing and his whole body relaxing as the Miruvors' effects spread. "Thank the gods for that darling boy, and all his house! It is precisely what I needed after that dreadful mountain. Perhaps I should see if the others would like some?"

"You do that, and I'll go see what Gandalf wants with me." Merrill stood up on tip toe and kissed his cheek.

Radhrion waved her off, the faintest tinge of pink coloring his ears, and Merrill picked her way over the broken slabs to Gandalf, who sat between two, gnarled trees, his robes tucked neatly around his knees.

Gandalf patted the ground beside him, smiling pleasantly around his ever-present pipe.

Merrill sat gingerly, her mind racing; what was he going to say? Would he tell her of his impending death? Give her advice? Talk about her faux break-up with Legolas?

"We've not had many opportunities to speak together, you and I, have we?"

Merrill shook her head, tugging at the cuffs of her tunic. "I guess not, no."

Gandalf exhaled a plume of blue smoke and considered its ascent before thoughtfully taking another pull from his pipe. "Elrond tells me you have some foreknowledge of our quest." When Merrill merely nodded, he continued, "He also informed me of his request that you refrain from sharing such with any of the others. I only wished to ask that you continue in honoring your promise to him; any such divulgence of yours could very well destabilize our efforts and, quite possibly, aid our enemy." He scrutinized her, then, removing his pipe from his lips and meeting her eyes full on. Merrill did her best to meet it; she had nothing to feel guilty for, after all.

"I don't plan on saying anything to anyone about what I may, or may not, know about this quest."

The wizards' stare did not yield. "Under any circumstances?"

Merrill wavered. She couldn't make that promise. "Well, under most, at any rate."

"Hrrmph," he grunted, finally looking away, and Merrill almost collapsed with relief. "I would also ask that you refrain from using your abilities, particularly as we pass through the mines, though I caution you against using them altogether, at this point." When Merrill cocked her head at that, he added, "You have no need of them in your world, therefore it is hardly necessary that you develop them any further in the time that remains to you here in this one."

"Well that's—" Merrill began, her back snapping straight, a spark of defiance perched upon her lips. But then her brain caught up to her body and she squashed the feeling, the spark fizzling out and leaving an unpleasant, heaviness in its stead. She shook herself mentally and continued quietly, "Yeah… you're right, of course."

The wind screeched its way through the rocks again, and Merrill watched the others shift uncomfortably, eyeing the looming, black cliff face with no little degree of alarm. Sam huddled closer to Frodo, Boromir shuddered and slid his sword from its sheathe, balancing it across his knees as though to sharpen it, but he didn't retrieve his whetstone, and Aragorn spoke quietly to Legolas, who stared at something small he held in the palm of his hand.

"I wished to apologize, as well, for last night. If I had any other method of waking you from your dream, I would have taken it. However, as things stood, I chose to use your bond with Legolas to my advantage."

Merrill opened her mouth, then closed it; Gandalf knew about their bond? And what did "using" our bond mean, exactly? "What do you mean?" Merrill asked, scooting to face him fully.

The wizard blew a blue smoke ring over her head, his eyes tracking its movement as he replied, "Your bond with Legolas, though yet weak, allowed him to wake you." He exhaled contentedly and his eyes fell to her face, shrouded in the smoke blossoming from his pipe. "Though it was necessary, I regret what came afterwards. The path you have chosen will be a hard one—for Legolas, as well. I only hope you are certain."

Merrill slumped back against the rock and kicked the heel of her boot into the dirt a few times, frowning. "This whole thing is impossible. There are still days where I wake up and think this is all a dream. I try to wake myself up, or I try to re-write something that's happened that I don't like, but nothing ever changes. I'm still here, and the things I want to change in this dream don't take." She glanced up at him, his death on the tip of her tongue, but then thought better of it; let him think she was speaking of her predicament with Legolas.

"Some things cannot be stopped, cannot be changed; some people cannot be saved."

Merrill shivered at his words; he knew that he was going to die, and he wanted her to promise not to interfere. "I've never understood why reminding a person that they don't have control over the vast majority of the situations they encounter in their lives is supposed to be comforting," she groused, "and yet people will keep repeating it, all the same."

The clouds parted briefly and a shaft of moonlight fell onto the black stone beside them, causing Gandalf to leap to his feet and the others to cry out.

Silvery lines bloomed along the stone like water following troughs in the ground, completing intricate patterns the likes of which Merrill had never seen. They glinted and winked in the faint light, but steadily grew stronger as the moon rode higher in the sky until they glowed with a steady, silvery-blue light.

Two pillars supported an arch, upon which a curling, graceful script was inscribed. Beneath the arch, seven stars were carved in a triangular shape above a gleaming, silver crown and a simple hammer and anvil. On either side of the pillars, two, great Holly trees, quite similar to the ones that still stood beside the gate, were carved, their crescent shaped branches wrapping about the stone pillars, and between them a many pointed star glittered white against the black of the stone.

Radhrion drew up beside her, resting his arm around her shoulders. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he whispered reverently.

Merrill nodded dumbly, unable to look away; it was truly as though someone had distilled pure starlight. The lines waxed and waned, dimmed and flared, just like the stars.

Gimli jostled into her in his haste, stumbling past, his mouth open wide, his face cast in the silver of the reflected light. "The symbols of Durin!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "The emblems of my kin."

Legolas stroked the silvery trees, murmuring Elvish praises beneath his breath. "And the trees of the High Elves."

Gandalf pushed the pair gently away, settling himself directly before it once more, and noted, "And the symbol of the House of Feanor. All wrought in Ithildin, precisely as I said it would be," he added archly, and Merrill could have sworn she saw Boromir roll his eyes.

"What does it say, Gandalf?" Frodo asked curiously, slipping past the others to the front. "Bilbo taught me Sindarin, but I find that I cannot make heads nor tails of this script. It is Elvish, isn't it?"

Gandalf beamed at Frodo. "It is, indeed, my dear Hobbit, but not a variation which you would recognize. It is written in the Elvish tongue of the Elder Days, a language which has been all but lost to the ravages of time. It says, ' _The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter_.' Beneath that, there is a maker's mark which reads: ' _I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.'_ " Gandalf patted the door fondly. "It was a happier time, when friendship yet existed between Dwarves and Elves."

Gimli crossed his arms across his broad chest and huffed, "It was through no fault of my kin that this friendship waned."

"And I have not heard it was the fault of mine," Legolas replied, flicking his hair over his shoulder and looking down his nose at the Dwarf.

"Yet I have heard both," Gandalf said, and Merrill snorted. "All I would ask of you, Legolas and Gimli, is that you set your differences aside and help me. Night has fallen, and Saruman's wolves will not be far behind."

Legolas and Gimli eyed each other suspiciously, but eventually nodded their grudging assent.

Gandalf clapped his hands together. "Gimli, am I right in thinking that these doors have no key?"

Gimli nodded cautiously. "Aye. It is recorded that they opened with a word, however that word is no longer remembered by my kin." He spoke this last to his boots, his cheeks heating.

Radhrion leaned down and whispered, "Much has been lost, Gimli Gloin-son. Yet your people still stand, still endure. There is no need for shame, here."

Gimli tried to speak, but ultimately chose to remain silent, nodding jerkily.

Merrill squeezed Gimli's arm before straightening; Gandalf was nose to nose with the wall, muttering Elvish beneath his breath.

Upon realizing nothing would be happening any time soon, the others dispersed, leaving Merrill, Radhrion, and Gimli watching Gandalf.

Gandalf took his staff in hand, pressing it hard against the star, and cried: " _Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen! Fennas nogothrim, lasto beth lammen_!"

The stone did not budge; the silver markings blinked in and out sedately. Gandalf's lips pursed and he pushed his blue hat off his forehead to scratch at his scalp, pulling it back down over his ears as he resettled his feet and tried again, speaking what sounded to Merrill like the same words, but with a different inflection.

The moon had climbed well into the middle of the night sky, and still Gandalf persevered, walking away before whirling on the spot and shouting a random Elvish word at the door, which remained stubbornly shut. Eventually, he gave up all pretense and charged, smacking the stone repeatedly with his staff while shouting: "Edro! Edro!"

When no discernible change could be seen, Gandalf flung his staff and hat to the ground and collapsed atop his pack, his chin in his hands.

Gimli sighed, shuffling back to his pack to prepare for sleep, and Radhrion jerked his head to indicate to Merrill that she should give the wizard some space.

Aragorn and the Hobbits nodded in silent greeting when Radhrion and Merrill approached, and Sam offered the pair jerky from the food stores.

Merrill took it gratefully, taking a bite and chewing while she eyed the black water. There was something wrong about it she couldn't quite put her finger on. Its black surface was like staring into the void; no light returned from it, no sound, and then Merrill realized—it held no reflections. She checked the sky and, sure enough, the stars were out in full force, but the pool showed not a one.

Without taking her eyes off it, Merrill tugged at Radhrion's sleeve. "Radhrion—" But she couldn't finish, for just then a cry broke through the clearing and interrupted her.

"I have it!" Gandalf exclaimed, causing half the company to jump. He raced back to the stone and proclaimed, "Mellon!"

The star upon the door pulsed bright, then faded, the doors swinging open silently to reveal the dim shapes of a staircase receding into the inky black of the tunnel beyond.

Gimli rushed forward, his pack secure against his back, his flushed face shining with excitement. "Let us go!"

Gandalf set his blue hat snug against his head and retrieved his staff. "Yes, let us go. Gather your things."

Merrill loped over to her pack, settling her bow against her back and sheathing her sword in her belt while Radhrion did the same.

"Make haste!" Gandalf called from the doorway.

"The water!" Sam cried. "There's something in the water!"

Before anyone could reply, a long, green, luminous tentacle exploded from the pool and wrapped around Frodo's ankle, ripping him from the ground and into the churning, black water.

Sam shouted, diving in after his friend armed with nothing but his belt knife, and Merry and Pippin joined him, quickly vanishing beneath the water and out of sight.

Merrill, uncertain, began to unbuckle her sword from her belt, making as though to move forward.

"Get to the mines!" Radhrion yelled, shoving her back before unsheathing his sword and wading into the fray, the gleam of his silver sword flashing in the moonlight.

And that's when it all went pear-shaped. Something wet and slimy climbed up her leg, and before she could so much as scream, it had yanked her into the depths.

Black water filled her nose, and a mass of dark bubbles obscured her sight. Merrill thrashed wildly, kicking and scrabbling at the dirt beneath her nails, her fingernails tearing on the rocks, but it was no use; the creature merely tossed her up only to slam her back into the earth below, knocking the wind from her lungs and causing Merrill to gasp, inhaling ungodly amounts of water as she did so.

Weakly, she scratched at the tentacle around her ankle, but the monster merely constricted it further. Her vision went dark around the edges, her heartbeat grew fainter and fainter in her temples, and the whole struggling business seemed, quite frankly, a waste of time and effort.

It was then that something bumped against her, and Merrill squinted, hard, at the blurry shape; it was Frodo!

His eyes were closed, his hand curled tight around his neckline, and, for a moment, Merrill thought he might be dead, but then his unoccupied hand fell to beat feebly at the tentacle entrapping him, and she knew she had to do something.

Merrill's numb fingers scrabbled at her wrist guard, managing to pull her dagger free before plunging it into the wriggling thing around her foot.

The water boiled as the creature screamed, and Merrill kicked off it, swimming hard until she broke the surface, coughing and retching until it felt as though a clog-wearing elephant had used her chest for trampoline practice.

"FRODO!" Boromir bellowed, and Merrill came back to herself; Frodo was still down there! She took a deep breath before the logical, survival-oriented part of her brain could object, and dove back beneath the churning waves, slashing blindly at everything that came within her reach.

The water rolled, knocking her aside, the waves buffeted her every time she drew close to the unconscious Hobbit, jerking her in one direction only to hurl her in the other, but still she persisted, pumping her legs hard until she was before Frodo.

Quickly assessing the situation, Merrill realized there was nothing for it; there was a chance she'd hit Frodo as she tried to cut the tentacles away from his body, but it was the only shot she had.

Silently, she sent up a plea to whomever was listening, gripped the dagger tight, and hacked and sliced at every tentacle she could see, the water filling with streams of black blood that stung her eyes, but she forced them open and continued her assault until, finally, the creature screeched and Frodo was free.

Merrill took a handful of the hobbit's tunic and kicked hard against the water, her free hand working frantically, her lungs burning in her chest, her vision dimming.

 _It wasn't like she'd make it. Why did she try? The Hobbit was probably already dead, anyway. And all because of her incompetence. She was pathetic. A fool—_

Merrill ground her teeth together and moved her hand away from the ring, which, oddly, was the only thing she could still see with any clarity. It thrummed and glowed gold in the murky, green light of the water, calling to the dark things of the world in a language she did not know, demanding her death. And yet, even knowing that, something in it called to her to take it for her own.

With one, final kick of her powerful legs, Merrill erupted from the water and clawed her way to the bank, dragging Frodo with her.

She collapsed into the mud, gasping for breath, her limbs trembling from exertion. Frodo lay motionless beside her, his face abnormally pale, his chest still.

Merrill willed her body to move, clambering over the small Hobbit and lacing her fingers together over his heart.

Merrill began to push down on his chest, keeping to the beat of "Stayin' Alive" and singing it aloud as she did so, unaware of anything else besides the still, cold Hobbit beneath her hands. He looked so much like a child, then—a sodden, discarded doll, his limbs lifeless, his skin dull—and the image sent chills down her spine.

She leant down and pressed her lips to his, breathing air into his lungs, but there was no response. Frustrated, Merrill started another round, feeling the odd, heated sensation of her healing spring to her fingertips. She directed it into his chest and willed the water out. The image of water evaporating in the sun on a hot day filled her, and she focused on that with everything in her, trying to picture his lungs in her mind.

Frodo's blue eyes flew open and he rolled over onto his side, coughing up water and heaving uncontrollably.

Merrill thumped him on the back until he lay flat once more, breathing heavily, and then crumpled to her knees, thoroughly exhausted.

"MERRILL!" Without warning, Radhrion bundled her into his arms, Aragorn taking charge of Frodo, and the pair sprinted into the mines, the sounds of absolute chaos hot on their heels.

A horrible, groaning, grinding noise, a crash, and then the world shook.

The monster from the lake roared from without, but its voice was muted and, eventually, it grew quiet.

Merrill trembled in Radhrion's arms, her hair plastered to her face and neck. It was pitch black. She could hear nothing but the shaky breaths of the others and the soft whimpers of the Hobbits. Then something cold touched her face.

 _Were you injured? Were you hurt? Are you well?_

Merrill shook her head, and then, realizing it was too dark to see, rasped, "I'm fine."

Relief flooded their strange link at this, and Merrill turned her face further into Radhrion's tunic and closed her eyes resolutely.

"Make some noise to indicate your presence when I call your name," Gandalf ordered from somewhere in front of her.

"Frodo?"

A cough, and then Frodo croaked, "Here."

"Aragorn?"

"I am here, and so, too, are Radhrion and Merrill."

"Excellent, but we must speak later, Merrill."

Merrill nodded stiffly into Radhrion's shoulder, and the latter replied, "Not now, Gandalf."

The wizard harrumphed. "Samwise? Meriadoc? Peregrin?"

Three squeaks were all he got by way of reply, but Gandalf didn't appear to require more, for he continued, "And Boromir and Gimli were beside me as I entered, and Legolas right behind. So it would seem we have all managed a rather fortunate escape."

"Not the word I would have chosen," Boromir muttered sourly.

A faint light hummed to life in Gandalf's staff, and the company all visibly relaxed upon seeing evidence of one anothers continued existence, Merrill included.

Gandalf turned and extended his staff towards the stairs before them; they stretched up, and up, and up indefinitely into darkness. He turned back to examine whence they came, and the whole party followed his gaze. The entrance was blocked with great, jagged hunks of stone; there was no escaping through there.

"The passage is blocked. There now remains to us but one way; we must brave the long dark of Moria."

Gimli shuffled forward, his helm in his hands, his eyes scanning the area. "I had hoped we would be welcomed by my kin, but here there are no torches lit, no guards at the gate, and the dust lays thick on the stone."

Gandalf frowned, placing his hand upon Gimli's shoulder. "That was my hope, as well. But an ill-founded one, Gimli, Gloin-son. I fear you must prepare yourself for far worse." He met each of their eyes at this, and added quietly, "As must you all."

Gimli's eyes widened at the wizards words, but Gandalf moved away, taking with him his light, and Merrill could make out no more.

"But what was that, Gandalf?" Frodo asked, his voice hoarse.

Gandalf shook his head. "I do not know, Mr. Baggins. It might be a creature stirred up from the deep, dark depths of the world, or one sent by our enemies. However, its purpose was clear." He looked pointedly at Frodo's chest, and Frodo unthinkingly stroked the ring beneath his tunic.

The mood shifted as they all considered this knowledge; Moria, it seemed, would be no better than Caradhras, and might, in fact, be considerably worse. Merrill only wished she could tell them just how right they were.

"Take a few moments to collect yourselves; we must be on our way in a quarter of an hour."

Radhrion set Merrill gently down upon the stone before pulling his tunic over his head and popping it over her own, leaving him in nothing but his thin undershirt.

"Shh," he admonished lightly when Merrill tried to protest. "I won't hear a word, little bird. Look here." He gestured to his lap and Merrill heaved a sigh of relief upon recognizing her bow and healer's kit. "I rescued many of your things, however I was unable to find the pack with your personal belongings."

"Oh," Merrill replied numbly; everything she had from home had been in that pack—her clothes, her shoes, even her cell. The last bits of evidence to prove that she had not always been in Middle Earth were gone. It left her cold.

Radhrion brought her hands to his face, blowing warm air onto her fingers and rubbing the circulation back into her arms vigorously, murmuring soothing, nonsensical words.

When she didn't respond, he left and returned with his Miruvor, which he pressed to her lips until she took a sip.

That woke her up; Merrill shook her head slowly, as though waking from a nightmare, and blinked at the harsh light of her surroundings. It was cold, and damp, and dusty, just as Gimli had mentioned, but she didn't see any dead bodies strewn across the floor.

 _Weren't there a bunch of dead Dwarves in the movie?_ She wondered. _Am I misremembering? No,_ she thought. _I'm not. Because that stupid monster was in the movies, too, and it's definitely real._ Merrill rested her head against Radhrion's shoulder and made an attempt to smile at Frodo, who sat across from her, Sam stalwart at his side and pressing jerky on him, much as Radhrion had done to her with the Miruvor. _I really need to sit down the next time we have a break and try to remember the damn movies. No matter what I thought before, it's time I started to believe. If I continue as I have and refuse to take any of this seriously, I might very well end up dead. Avoidance only works if you're alive to use it, Merrill._ She shut her eyes to the dark and took a steadying breath; the scent of fresh, crisp pines allowed her to believe she was safe, if only for that moment.

"Radhrion."

Merrill peeked from between her lashes at the voice; Legolas stood before them, a bundle of grass green fabric held in his hands.

Radhrion's chest rumbled beneath her ear. "I thank you, but it is hardly—"

Legolas knelt and placed two tunics atop Radhrion's pack before standing, twisting his hand over his heart, and returning to Aragorn's side without another word.

Radhrion sighed, taking one of the tunics in hand and rubbing the material between his fingers. "Fine wool and an incomparable weave," he murmured, and then, flipping it over, continued in surprise, "… and the royal crest of his house, too... I see."

Merrill knocked her head against Radhrion's shoulder. "Just put it on, Ronners. It's a nice gesture."

"Well, yes. It was thoughtful, to be sure, and I suppose it would be churlish to…" he trailed off at her smug expression, and then tugged the material over his head, his eyes narrowing at her smile. "Are you quite satisfied?"

Merrill glanced over at Legolas, and, when their eyes met, mouthed, "Thank you."

He nodded infinitesimally, quickly returning his attention to Aragorn, who considered the pair with an expression of abstract wistfulness, his hand drifting up to his neck and brushing against something that lay there.

Gandalf stood and what meager conversation had existed died. He settled his blue hat carefully upon his head and shook out his robes. "It is time."

Wordlessly, the company got to their feet and gathered what few things remained to them, each lost in the dark of their own thoughts, before taking their customary places.

Radhrion and Aragorn, however, had decided to take up the rear, and Merrill, still a sodden, shivering, numb mess, went before them, but behind the Hobbits, too nervous to stray far from Radhrion's side.

"Gimli, if you would?" Gandalf gestured to his side. "I am in great need of a Dwarf's instincts in this vast dark."

Gimli grunted his acceptance, his boots heavy against the stone as he made his way to the front, his eyes trained on the floor.

When all were ready, Gandalf whispered to his staff and the light crept across the cracked stone, stopping two feet from the wizard's body in every direction and illuminating a section of the staircase in sickly, green light.

Merrill, who stood too far behind him to benefit, sidled a little closer to Radhrion, whose hand took hers, squeezing three times.

"It would appear that our presence has gone unnoticed. In that we have been fortunate. However, I do not expect that this shall continue to be so, and I ask that you take care! There are older and fouler things in the deep than the creature of the lake."

"Watch your steps; test the ground beneath your feet if it seems unsound," Aragorn added, his mouth a thin, grim line.

"And no idle chatter, I'm afraid." Radhrion said this for all, but looked directly at Merrill, and then at Pippin, to make his point, but Merrill was still too shaken to make any sort of quip; it was as though the dark were a creature with hundreds of eyes woven into the blanket of itself, the very air its musty breath, and she didn't have the capacity to notice much else.

Gandalf straightened resolutely, gripped the strap of his bag, and began to climb, calling over his shoulder, "Follow my staff!"

* * *

 **A/N:**

 ** **(1) Sweet Dough; pork fat (Icelandic)****

 ** **(2)Thank you/You are generous (reverential, Sindarin).****

 ** **(Also, though unnoted, the Elvish Gandalf hurls at the door is directly from the book, and I paraphrased Gimli and Legolas's reactions to seeing the Ithildin, too).****

 ** **As I am typing this, it has been a year since I released Nightingale, and, being a creature of habit, and one who enjoys to mark such occasions, I decided I would touch up this chapter and post it now to celebrate.****

 ** **Thank you all so much! To those who have been with me since the very beginning, I cannot tell you how much your constant support has meant to me. If not for your steady stream of encouragement, I would very likely have given up posting. So thank you, sincerely.****

 ** **And to those of you who have joined me along the way, I thank you for your enthusiastic comments and fresh perspectives. They teach me to see my characters in a different light. So thank you, as well.****

 ** **Kaikitty165, convalla91, Binnils, totomax, JcRxo, SarahELupin, MariaJane716, d'elfe, Lilisnia, blasttyrant, Julsathil, TheRadiantFire, Zipppppp, GaaraSandNiN, Jemstone6259, PatPatpat, little-red-wolf-5793, Erinnichole1560, ArwenUndmiel, tadah2, mycarnation, Laurel1234, CaptainJadeSparrow, AmberRose, NothingNooneZero, WeirdoMayMay, Lee-All-The-Way, Usedtobehere, Vienna22, selina18annamaria, Alalaes, PrincessKara12, pineapple-pancakes, various guests, and Lemontea-addict - your comments are deeply appreciated!****

 ** **Specifically,**** ** **Jemstone6259-your comments were a delight to read; I am glad you seem to enjoy my references, and thank you for commenting on each individual chapter! There's nothing like knowing someone is reading, and enjoying, your work to keep you motivated.****

 ** **Lilisnia-Thank you for your love of Radhrion! Though I can neither confirm, nor deny, your fears as to his continued existence, I am grateful for your comments. But I have to ask-how did you find me on A03? I don't have an account/post there. If you could drop me a link so I could check it out and see if anyone is plagiarizing my work, I'd be super grateful.****

 ** **And Laurel1234- Thanks, as always, for your comments! I haven't read your own wonderful story since I posted Nightingale because I didn't want to be unconsciously influenced by your fabulous style (I've been avoiding this whole fandom, lol), but I hope to catch up, soon, now that I've grown fairly confident in my own style. Everyone go read their story! If you like mine, you'll LOVE theirs! :)****

 ** **The next chapter is ALL Moria, so be prepared for lots of synonyms for the word "dark", lol.****

 ** **Oh, and no spoilers in the comments, please! If you want to run your theories past me, please drop me a message! I promise, I don't bite. ;)****

 ** **Until next time, be safe~****

 ** **Catali7****


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